


Could Be Dangerous

by the_beekeeper_of_sussex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Kiss, Gay Marriage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, depictions of violence, mentions of scars and PTSD, veterinarian!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 22,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_beekeeper_of_sussex/pseuds/the_beekeeper_of_sussex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good morning!  I’m Dr. Watson, and you must be Mr. Holmes and,” he double-checked the patient information on the chart, “Curie.”  The doctor looked up from the clipboard with a broad smile on his face.</p><p>Sherlock snorted in derision. “Obviously.”  He glanced up at the doctor from his phone in disinterest but what he observed in that short moment caused him to do a double-take.  Well, this was… interesting.  Very interesting, indeed.  </p><p>--An alternate meeting where John is a veterinarian and Sherlock is his usual, moody self.  The story follows them from their first meeting through their happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work of fiction in over 20 years. I am accustomed to writing research papers and whatnot. I was issued a challenge by a friend to write something and this is the result. It hasn't been beta'd or brit-picked. This was purely a challenge to see if I could do the thing...and I have. I have done the thing. Are there sexy-times? Yes, implied. Are there tropes? Hell yes! All the tropes!
> 
> Here's all the fine-print details about me not owning the characters, not being affiliated with the BBC, blah, blah, blah.
> 
> If anyone is interested in checking out my Tublr you can find me _[Here](http://hectocotylus1.tumblr.com)_

September 3rd, 2013

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and bowed his head in a poor attempt to protect himself from the rain. The case had taken him longer to solve than he had anticipated and it was in the early hours of the morning before he was able to leave the crime scene, which was thankfully not far from his flat. At the time he had not been worried about the lack of cabs available to take him home as the night was chilly but not unpleasant for walking. He had not gotten far, however, when he felt the first cold drops of rain fall. What had started out as a light shower quickly turned into a proper downpour. Glancing up through his wet lashes, he saw the glow of the light above Speedy’s Café.

His destination in sight, Sherlock quickened his pace. As he passed the alleyway at the corner of the building he heard a commotion that caused him to slow his pace. Stopping to listen, he heard what could not be mistaken for anything other than panicked meowing. Doubling back Sherlock ducked into the alleyway to investigate.

The frantic sounds were emanating from the café’s dumpster. When Sherlock peered over the edge he was met with two wide, bright green eyes which belonged to one very wet and frightened black cat.

Based on the animal’s condition it was clear to Sherlock the cat was not feral but a stray. Not accustom to fending for itself on the streets, the animal had smelled the food waste in the dumpster and used the nearby boxes to gain access. Once inside the jump was too high for the animal to escape causing it to raise an alarm.

Sherlock knew that the animal had little chance of survival if it were to remain out in the cold rain, so using his long limbs he hoisted himself into the dumpster. Despite being scared, the cat was weak from its struggle to escape and put up no fight when Sherlock lifted it and sheltered the animal from the rain in the folds of his long, wool coat. He could feel the water wick from the rain-soaked fur and into his dress shirt, the sensation causing him to shiver. They both needed to warm up and dry off as quickly as possible.

Running the last few paces to the front stoop of his flat, Sherlock quickly unlocked the door and bounded up the seventeen steps. As the weather had recently turned cool with the approach of fall, the fireplace was being used more often and there were thankfully still a few coals in the grate emitting a bit of radiant heat. Making a sort of nest out of an old throw, he placed the cat in front of the fireplace to slowly bring its body temperature back up and dry its soaked fur. He had fully expected the animal to retreat into hiding as soon as he had let go, but any fighting resources the animal had left had clearly been depleted. 

With the cat appearing to rest peacefully for the time being, Sherlock shucked his soggy woolen coat and set to work assembling some basic care items. He found two bowls and designated one for water and filled the other with a bit of leftover chicken that Mrs. Hudson had brought up the evening before. A shallow tote that he had been storing some old lab equipment in was emptied, refilled with some shredded newspaper and repurposed into a make-shift litter box. The set-up was not ideal, but it would do until morning when he could get to a shop to purchase more appropriate supplies. Feeling there was nothing more he could do until later in the morning, Sherlock settled onto the couch where he steepled his hands under his chin and began to sort through the details of his latest case.

Before he knew it two weeks had passed since he had lifted the cold and frightened cat from the rubbish bin next to Speedy’s. The animal had recovered from its harrowing adventure and both man and cat had settled into a comfortable existence. If Sherlock were honest with himself, he would admit that it felt nice to have a warm-blooded being to come home to. He had taken to talking to the cat about his cases as he found that talking out-loud helped him to break through some of the more problematic details. Cats being inherently more independent, Sherlock found that the animal was much more adaptable to his current lifestyle than a dog would have been.

On more than one occasion Sherlock had returned from his mind palace to find the animal curled near his feet or on his chest purring with contentment. He felt his resolve begin to break with each gentle sweep of his hand down the sleek, black fur and by the third week it was clear to Sherlock that the cat would be living nowhere other than with him in 221B.

Sherlock knew he could not continue to refer to the animal as “the cat” or “the feline”, so he sat one afternoon and contemplated an appropriate moniker; he refused to name the animal something so mundane and pedestrian as “Whiskers” or “Shadow”. The first thing Sherlock recalled about that rainy night was the bright green eyes that almost appeared radioactive in the glow of the diffused street light. Sherlock smiled to himself, his chemist-mind knowing that there was only one name that would be appropriate: Curie.

Now that the cat had a permanent home and a proper name, Sherlock knew the next step would be to take the animal to the clinic to have a health exam. Bundling Curie into the carrier he had purchased, Sherlock made his way to the kurb where he hailed a cab for the nearest veterinary clinic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy meets vet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to incorporate some of the dialogue used during Sherlock and John's first meeting in the series. I hope I was able to capture some of the awkwardness.
> 
> And a big "thank you" to DigitalKitty for pointing out that in the UK veterinarians go by the designation BVSc as opposed to DVM/VMD like we have in the US.

September 24th, 2013

Sherlock entered the clinic and approached the desk where he was greeted by an over-enthusiastic receptionist who proceeded to check him in. His eyes narrowed as he deduced: _32 year-old female, still lives at home, took on this job to help pay for night classes. Allergic to animal dander but is under the impression that it is only seasonal allergies--_

His analysis was interrupted by an overly-cheery voice. “Oh, I see that you were scheduled to see Dr. Chapman, but I’m afraid that she was called out of town for an unexpected emergency—“

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “The unexpected nature of an event is normally what deems it to be emergent. That is the very definition of the word.”

“Er, um, yes… Anyway, in her absence you have been reassigned to Dr. Watson. If you’ll just have a seat he should be finishing up with his current patient and will be with you shortly.”

Taking Curie over to the seating area Sherlock sat down with a huff, the experience already exasperating. With nothing else at his disposal to pass the time aside from outdated issues of Cat Fancy and The Bark he removed the phone from his pocket and immersed himself in updating his blog. He was deeply engrossed in detailing the characteristics of a new tobacco ash when he became aware of someone calling his name with increasing irritation and volume.

“Mr. Holmes...Mr. Holmes!” Sherlock looked up, finally deigning to acknowledge the voice. “Dr. Watson will see you and Curie now.”

Sherlock grabbed the carrier, where Curie had been getting increasingly agitated with her confinement, and followed the technician back to the exam room. After taking Curie’s temperature and asking some preliminary questions about her eating and elimination habits, the technician nodded to the solitary chair in the room.

“If you would like to take a seat Dr. Watson will be right in.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh. It appeared that he was destined to wait yet again. Throwing himself down into the chair he pulled the phone from his pocket once more. It wasn’t long, however, before the exam room door opened and he was greeted by the cheerful doctor.

“Good morning! I’m Dr. Watson, and you must be Mr. Holmes and,” he double-checked the patient information on the chart, “Curie.” The doctor looked up from the clipboard with a broad smile on his face.

Sherlock snorted in derision. “Obviously.” He glanced up at the doctor from his phone in disinterest but what he observed in that short moment caused him to do a double-take. Well, this was… interesting. Very interesting, indeed. 

He had just begun to make his mental assessment of the doctor when Sherlock’s phone pinged a text alert. Tearing his eyes away he began to type out a response only to frown as the screen went dark. Sherlock growled in frustration and muttered to himself as he shoved the now dead phone back into his pocket. “Dammit, I must have forgotten to plug the bloody thing in to charge last night.”

Reaching into the pocket of his scrub bottoms Dr. Watson presented Sherlock with his phone. “Here, use mine.”

Sherlock raised his brow in surprise. “Oh. Thank you.” He accepted the phone and turned his back as he began to type furiously. While Sherlock was firing off his response Dr. Watson took Curie gently from her carrier and began the physical exam. 

Having completed his correspondence Sherlock snapped the phone shut and spun on his heel. Narrowing his eyes Sherlock took a step forward, pinning the doctor with his gaze as his head tilted in inquiry. “So, which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

Dr. Watson’s eyes widened slightly and then his brows knit in confusion. “Um, it was Afghanistan. How… how did you know that I had….?” He trailed off, his mind whirring trying to figure out how this stranger knew about his military history.

Taking a deep breath Sherlock surged ahead with his deduction. “Your haircut and the way you hold yourself say military. In addition your face is tanned, however you have no tanning above the wrists. This tells me that you’ve been abroad, but not for pleasure. You exhibit a limp in your right leg which is quite pronounced when you walk, however you don’t appear to seek out the use of a chair or stool when you stand, as though you’ve forgotten about all about it. So, the limp is at least partly psychosomatic. This tells me that the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. You were likely wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.” 

Dr. Watson smiled broadly and laughed out his response. “That…was…amazing!” 

Sherlock scowled in confusion, “Do you really think so?”

“Yes! You were spot on. Absolutely amazing!” He shook his head in disbelief.

Sherlock continued to glower, “Hmm, that’s not what people usually say.”

John’s smile faded and was replaced by a look of puzzlement. “What do people usually say?”

“Piss off.”

Dr. Watson let out a high-pitched giggle and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a grin which faltered only slightly when he felt an unexpected flutter in his stomach.

Suddenly aware that the two of them had been holding each other’s gaze, Dr. Watson glanced at the floor awkwardly and cleared his throat. “Um…Everything looks good here with Curie. We’re, ah, just going to give her a few injections to be on the safe side as we don’t know her vaccination history. I’m just going to pop over to the supply closet and get those prepared. I’ll put Curie back in her carrier until I get back. The clinic is unfamiliar to her, so she’ll probably feel more secure.”

Having placed the cat back in her carrier the doctor exited the exam room leaving Sherlock to knit his brow and contemplate the exchange that had just occurred. He was unaccustomed to people reacting emphatically when confronted with his deductions. More often than not his analyses were met with harsh words and, occasionally, a slap or punch to the face. He felt positively idiotic when he thought of the soppy grin he had offered the doctor in return for his praise.

Sherlock’s mental beratement was suspended by the doctor reentering the room. “Alright, let’s get these vaccinations administered so you and Curie can be on your way.”

The doctor uncapped the needle on the first syringe, gathered a fold of skin, and gently slid the needle in. He praised Curie for remaining calm. “There you go, sweetheart. Good job, girl. Just a couple more to go.” 

He re-capped the used syringe and reached for the next. Feeling that he was being watched, Dr. Watson glanced up at Sherlock who was observing the process intently. Sherlock chose that moment to glance up at the doctor as well, causing their eyes to meet. Dr. Watson gasped. Sherlock had sectoral heterochromia. He had seen variations of heterochromia in animals he had treated, and while he knew it was not an uncommon condition in humans, he had never seen quite such a beautiful variation before. He couldn’t be certain, but the doctor would have sworn that he had seen the other man’s pupils dilate just slightly as he allowed himself to be observed.

Once again Dr. Watson realized he had been staring at the other man and swallowed hard in embarrassment. Turning his focus back to the task at hand he attempted to make small talk in order to take the attention off of whatever it was that had just passed between them. “So, um, what do you do for work, then?”

“What do you think I do?” Sherlock fired back.

Dr. Watson shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if I had to venture a guess, I would say some sort of detective work.”

“Mm…close. I’m a consulting detective.”

“Sorry, I can’t say as I’ve ever heard of that before.”

Sherlock smiled smugly, “It’s because I’m the only one in the world. I invented the job. The police consult with me when they are out of their depth. Which is always.”

The doctor smiled and shook his head, “Amazing!”

“Do you realize you say that out loud?” Sherlock asked.

The doctor frowned, “Oh. Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“No. It’s...it’s fine.” Sherlock smirked and turned his head away, his face feeling hot. Was he blushing? What the hell was going on with him today?

They stood together in awkward silence and avoided eye contact until Dr. Watson finally broke the silence. “Um, well, Mr. Holmes--”

“Please, call me Sherlock.”

“Okay…Sherlock, it looks like I’m all done with Curie here. I have a print-out for you to take along which details some of the common and uncommon reactions Curie could have to the various vaccines she got today. If you have any questions feel free to call or bring her back in. I’ll walk you back out to the reception area and you can be on your way. I’m sure the ineptitude of the local police force causes you to have a very busy schedule.” Smiling, Dr. Watson opened the door and walked with Sherlock back out to the reception area.

“Rachel, could you get Mr. Holmes here all squared away?”

“Yes, of course,” the receptionist beamed.

Dr. Watson turned and extended his hand, “It was nice meeting you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock took the doctor’s hand and squeezed it gently. “It was very nice meeting you as well, Dr. Watson.”

“Please, call me John.” 

Sherlock smiled and his voice softened, “It was very nice meeting you as well, John.”

Both men smiled fondly at each other; and if the handshake lingered just a little longer than was necessary, neither was apt to admit it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a mysterious text and finds himself at a crime scene.

September 24th, 2013--Evening

John stepped over the threshold of his bedsit and hung up his coat with a heavy sigh. He pressed the heels of his hands into his exhausted eyes before moving to the kitchenette where he popped his frozen meal into the microwave. As he watched the slow rotation of the plastic tray he lamented how long it had been since he had treated himself to a meal in a proper restaurant. The locum work he was picking up at the clinic didn’t pay poorly, but the income was hardly consistent. Between his small Army pension and the cost of living in London he was barely able to eke out an existence. Every day seemed to blend into the next and he hated it. The microwave dinged, signaling the end of its heating cycle and John heaved another sigh as he removed the meal and he shuffled over to his bed where he sat to eat. He was just about to take a bite when he received a text alert. John furrowed his brow in confusion. He very rarely received texts. The clinic was closed for the evening; and even if it had been someone from the clinic they would have called rather than send a text. John picked up his phone and flipped the screen open. On the display was a street address followed by a message: 

_“Could use your professional opinion. Come if convenient. –SH”_

John had just enough time to read the message before he received two more in rapid succession:

 _“If inconvenient, come anyway –SH”_  
_“Could be dangerous. –SH”_

John sat dumbfounded on his bed. Was this some sort of joke? Who texted someone a random address and just expected them to show up? John snorted to himself, “A bloody psychopath, that’s who.” He was about to toss his phone back on the bed and resume his dinner when it hit him. Reading the messages over again, he noticed that each one ended with the letters “SH”; the initials of the sender. There was only one person with whom he had recently had contact that would be crazy enough to dash off messages like these. Sherlock Holmes. The prospect of injecting a bit of excitement into his otherwise sepia-toned life was more than a little appealing and John could feel his heart rate quicken. He also couldn’t deny the flutter he felt in his stomach at the thought of seeing Sherlock again. Before he could talk himself out of it John shot back a brief “On my way” and left his dinner to grow cold as he grabbed his coat from the peg and dashed out the door.

The taxi pulled up to the address which Sherlock had given him. John wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find when he arrived, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t expecting a full-blown crime scene. John stepped from the taxi and took in the scene: police tape, flashing blue and red lights, uniformed officers bustling about. He scanned the crowd in search of a familiar face. It didn’t take long before he caught sight of Sherlock gesticulating wildly and speaking heatedly to an older, gray- haired man that appeared to be in charge. Cautiously he made his way over.

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief as he caught sight of John. “Ah, here you are!” He jabbed an accusatory finger in the older man’s direction, “I’ve been attempting to explain to Detective Inspector Lestrade here that I could proceed no further with this case without speaking with someone who has experience with animals and animal bites.” Sherlock looked at John as though this was a perfectly logical explanation as to why he was here.

Lestrade pointed at Sherlock and shot back, “And I’ve been trying to explain to _him_ that we just can’t let any ‘ol acquaintance of his onto a secure crime scene!” The man looked at John apologetically, “No offence.”

“None taken,” said John. Turning back to Sherlock John raised his shoulders questioningly, “So, what exactly is it that I’m doing here?”

Sherlock huffed in frustration, “I do hate repeating myself, John. I just said that I needed someone with experience in animal bites to examine the body and give me their opinion.”

“And you think that I have the kind of experience you’re looking for? Sherlock, I’m a veterinarian. What makes you think I have any sort of expertise in assessing animal bites? Let alone animal bites that are, apparently, on a dead body? I’m sure that the DI has people for this type of thing. People actually trained in forensic science!” He threw out his arms in exasperation. Was this honestly happening? One minute John was at home in his grubby, beige bedsit about to eat his microwave dinner, and now here he was standing at a crime scene being asked to look at a dead body and assess animal bites. Bloody hell, could his evening get any more bizarre?

Sherlock scowled in annoyance, “Anderson is working forensics tonight but he’s an idiot. Besides, he won’t work with me. Come on, John, we don’t have a minute to spare; there may be a killer at large!” Sherlock flashed John a smile and quickly strode off toward the crime scene. John glanced at Lestrade who begrudgingly nodded his permission for John to run off after the madman. 

Well, that answered his question.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Case concluded, John and Sherlock share a taxi. Will they see eachother again after this night?

The night concluded dramatically with both John and Sherlock chasing the suspect down several of London’s dark alleyways, always seeming to lose him at the last moment. They were finally able to corner the man at the end of an alley that, luckily for them, had been closed off due to some maintenance being done on one of the adjacent buildings. After a brief physical altercation the suspect had successfully been subdued by John who, to Sherlock’s delight, was able to showcase some of the combat techniques the Army had provided him. Sherlock produced a set of cable-ties from his coat pocket and snugged them around the suspect’s wrists and ankles to keep him restrained until Lestrade and his team could catch up. With the suspect secured both men leaned against the cool bricks of the alleyway to catch their breath. Catching each other’s eyes, both men dissolved into a fit of laugher.

“That was, by far, the craziest thing I have ever done” gasped John.

Sherlock beamed, “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John smiled wide and giggled. “That wasn’t only me.”

The two men, still lost for breath, locked eyes and continued to smile at each other. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak when they were interrupted by the sound of sirens signaling Lestrade’s arrival. 

After giving their statements both men walked back to the main road. Sherlock plucked his phone from his coat pocket and dialed for a cab. Pocketing his phone he glanced at John sideways and ducked his head as a sudden wave of bashfulness overtook him. “Would you like to go grab some dinner? I know of a Chinese place not too far from here. It will be my treat. The owners owe me a favor for getting their son off of a false murder charge, so they will be willing to stay open late for us.” Sherlock shuffled his feet on the pavement as he felt his cheeks heat a bit at the thought of spending time with John in a more intimate setting.

John was having an amazing night, but in the end he had to decline the offer, much to his disappointment. “I would love nothing more than to go out and have a proper meal, but it’s getting late and I have a shift to cover tomorrow. The clinic opens a bit earlier on Wednesdays to accommodate surgeries.” John bowed his head in disappointment but let out a small chuckle when he took in his appearance for the first time since taking down the baddie. He looked up and grinned, “Also, I don’t think I’m really dressed for the occasion.” John had dashed out of his bedsit in such a hurry that he had never changed out of his scrubs. His works clothes were now not only filthy from tussling with the suspect on the dirty pavement, but the trousers sported a sizable tear in the knee as well. John frowned a bit. He would have to try and patch that up himself later as he couldn’t afford a new set of scrubs at the moment. 

Both men stood in silence, disappointed at having to bring an end to their evening. As the cab drew up to the curb Sherlock turned to John, “Would you care to share the cab? I’m guessing you don’t live far from the clinic.”

John smiled, “Sure. Yeah, that would be great.” The fare was going to be a bit steep, but it was a price he was willing to pay to draw out their evening just a little bit longer.

Sherlock held the door open for John as he slid into the back seat. As Sherlock pulled the door shut behind him he barked out his address to the driver. Catching the flash of confusion that crossed John’s face, Sherlock explained, “The fare will be far less for you if the driver drops me off first.”

“Oh, well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

The two men rode in companionable silence for some way, trading sideways glances that they each thought the other didn’t notice. It was John who eventually angled his body toward Sherlock and broke the hush that had fallen over them. “So, I’ve been turning it over in my head, but I still can’t seem to figure out how it is that you got my personal cellphone number.”

Sherlock swiveled his head toward the cab’s window to hide the grin that played across his lips. “Ah, that one was easy. When you lent me the use of your phone at the clinic today I simply accessed the phone information from the settings menu. I have an eidetic memory, so recalling the number later was no great challenge for me.”

“Some people might call that a bit creepy.”

He could hear the smile in John’s voice so Sherlock turned back to face him. “What’s that? You don’t think it was _‘amazing’_?” Sherlock mocked. Both men let out a laugh at what had quickly become an inside joke between them.

“Oh, yes, brilliant as always. Even if it was a bit stalker-y”, John grinned.

The cab began to slow and the driver announced the arrival at 221B Baker Street. “Well, this has been a most pleasurable evening, John. Your help with the case was most advantageous.”

“I can honestly say that I never would have expected to spend my evening chasing criminals through the city’s alleyways. It was certainly a hell of a lot more exciting than the night of crap telly and that I’m usually in for after work.”

Sherlock beamed, “I’m certainly glad I could save you from that fate. Well…goodnight John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

The two men sat for a moment until, giving a small nod, Sherlock slid out of the cab and made his way to the steps of his flat, turning briefly to watch the cab as it pulled away. It may have been the street lighting playing tricks, but he was almost certain he saw John looking back at him, too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a package at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short but it was a little detail I wanted to touch on.

September 25th, 2013

The next morning John woke feeling surprisingly refreshed. Despite being out well past his usual bedtime it felt as though the excitement of chasing criminals through the streets of London brought a sense of purpose back into his life, purpose he believed lost after he was invalided back home from Afghanistan. John smiled as he admitted to himself that it also didn’t hurt that he had spent the evening with one handsome and mysterious Sherlock Holmes. The thought of watching the man grow smaller out the cab’s back window caused a flutter in his stomach he hadn’t felt in years, the sensation causing heat to rise in his cheeks.

John spent the morning at the clinic assisting with scheduled surgeries. While he enjoyed the intimate, one-on-one atmosphere of the exam room, John missed the adrenaline rush that only the surgical theatre could provide. However, the intermittent tremor that had developed in his hand after he was shot during a fire-fight near Kandahar had put a swift end to his veterinary surgical career and he would never be the one to take charge in the operating room again. Post-surgery always left him feeling a bit melancholy and nostalgic.

It was around lunch time when the last scheduled surgery wrapped up. John headed to the small break room to catch a quick bite to eat before getting ready for his afternoon appointments. He had just taken a bite of his sandwich when the receptionist popped into the room. “Dr. Watson, this package was just dropped off for you.”

John swallowed and wiped an errant crumb from his mouth. “Ta, Rachel, you can just set it on the table here.”

John eyed the package suspiciously. He hadn’t recently placed any supply orders. Besides, the packaging was too informal to be from one of the supply companies. Setting down his sandwich, John slid the package closer to him. No return address. So, the package had likely been hand delivered. Curiosity getting the better of him he popped the tape holding the box shut and lifted the lid. John’s eyes widened. Nestled in a bed of tissue paper was a new set of scrubs in a very attractive Prussian blue. Tucked into the breast pocket of the uniform was a notecard. John picked up the card and felt the thick, high-quality paper under his fingers. The message, written in a spidery, yet elegant, scrawl simply read: 

_“John,  
Your assistance last evening was most appreciated. –SH”_

Running his hand over the fabric John smiled, noting that the material was of a much higher quality and durability than any pair of scrubs he had ever owned. The color was not one he ever would have picked out for himself, but if anyone were skilled in knowing what color would match his skin tone and eye pigment the best it would be Sherlock Holmes, the posh bastard. John gently replaced the notecard in the box and closed the lid, his post-surgery despondency long since forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets more than he bargained for while out on a case and John has to patch him up.

September 28th, 2013

It had been three days since John had dashed out of his flat to go tearing around London with Sherlock. He had not heard from the man since and John was beginning to wonder if perhaps the evening had been a one-off and he would neither see nor hear from the man again. John breathed a heavy sigh at the prospect. He’d felt so alive running after Sherlock and the thought of going back to living his ordinary, every-day life made his heart ache. It was as though his life were going from Technicolor back to black and white. John had almost given up on hearing from Sherlock again when he received a text message just as he was getting ready for bed.

_“Your assistance is requested—SH”_

John’s heart began to beat faster as his adrenaline levels increased. He typed out his response without hesitation.

_“Send me the address. On my way in 5.”_

John went to his small dresser and quickly pulled on an older pair of jeans and a jumper. If he was going to be taking down more criminals in a back alley brawl he would rather it not be in his pajamas. Before sprinting out the door John paused at his night stand. After a few seconds of contemplation he opened the drawer and removed his handgun. After checking to be sure it was adequately loaded he tucked it in the back of his jeans. He knew the consequences of being discovered with the weapon were severe, but if running off with Sherlock in the middle of the night was to become a more regular part of his routine (and he sincerely hoped it would), he would rather be prepared for the worst-case scenario. The light jacket John threw on concealed the handgun effectively but still left it easily accessible should he need it. After making a final mental check he raced down to the street and hailed a cab to the address Sherlock had texted to him.

Both John and Sherlock arrived at the scene at almost the same time. The house they pulled up to appeared to be undergoing renovation judging by the amount of construction debris littering the property. A light rain started to fall and John turned up the collar of his coat against it. The crunching of gravel behind him signaled Sherlock’s approach.

“Good evening, John.”

John attempted to hide how pleased he was to see Sherlock to no avail as a wide grin spread across his face. “Hey, there! So, what have we got here? Do you want me to look at samples of fur or something?” he teased.

Sherlock smiled. “Not as such, John. I have found your presence at crime scenes to be…beneficial. You aren’t necessarily the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are appear to be unbeatable.”

“Oh, cheers…What?”

“Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others. That is what you do for me, John.”

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.”

“As well you should. Most people only serve to clutter my thought process. However, it has become quite apparent that you are not ‘most people’”.

It was at that moment that Lestrade caught sight of the men and made his way over to brief them on what his team knew so far (which Sherlock assured John was very little). Lestrade turned to John and gave him a warm yet surprised smile. “I have to say I’m a bit surprised to see you here. I thought this one,” the man jerked his head Sherlock’s direction, “would have scared you off with all his nonsense.”

John glanced over at Sherlock and grinned. “Nah. Actually, having a little excitement in my life is exactly what I’ve needed lately.”

Lestrade clapped his hand on John’s shoulder. “Well, it’s good to see you again, mate. Let’s head on in so you two can have a look around, shall we?”

As the men entered the cordoned off area something in Sherlock’s peripheral vision caught his attention. “Lestrade, did your team clear the crime scene before calling us in?”

“Of course we did!”

“Well, your team obviously missed something.”

Sherlock cautiously strode over to what appeared to be a heap of discarded carpeting remnants which had been pulled from the house. As Sherlock closed in a man burst from the pile and took off running.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock yelled as he wheeled around and shot off in pursuit of the man. John wasted no time in following, Lestrade not far behind.  
The rain was coming down harder now and Sherlock briefly lost sight of the man as he sprinted toward the back of the property. He should have known better to be cautious on a construction site as almost anything at hand could be used as a weapon, and that is exactly what happened. As Sherlock rounded the back corner of the house he was struck squarely in the chest with a discarded 2x4. Despite the breath being knocked from his body, Sherlock was still able to tackle the man to the ground and hold him until John and Lestrade caught up. 

It wasn’t until they had returned to the well- lit area in front of the house that John noticed blood on the front of Sherlock’s shirt. “Sherlock are you okay?” He stopped Sherlock and moved aside the front of the man’s Belstaff. John’s eyes widened at the sight of the torn and blood-soaked fabric.  
“Christ! Sherlock, what the hell happened?!”

Looking down at his chest, Sherlock gently touched his fingers to the sticky shirt front. His brow furrowed. He vaguely recalled feeling a brief stinging sensation when he had been struck by the piece of wood, but he had been too caught up in the thrill of the chase for his brain to register the nail which had not been pulled clear of the timber. The pointed metal had left a sizeable gash in his right pectoral as he had turned his body in an attempt to avoid the blow.

John’s eyes were filled with concern. “Jesus, Sherlock, it looks like the cut is pretty deep. We need to get you to A&E. You’re probably going to need stitches and some antibiotics.” 

Sherlock’s head shot up, “No!” he blurted out frantically. 

“What do you mean ‘no’? Sherlock, you’re hurt. You need to have someone look at this!” 

Sherlock’s voice softened. “John, it will take forever to be seen by a doctor. This is hardly the first time I have injured myself pursuing a criminal. I have adequate supplies at home. You can administer the stitches and antibiotics back at my flat. You had several opportunities to perform minor procedures such as this in the Army, did you not?”

John’s mouth turned down in a slight frown. It was true. Obviously he hadn’t been doing any veterinary work in Afghanistan during his deployment, but on more than one occasion John had been recruited by the field medic to assist with stitching up wounded soldiers. After all, there really was very little difference in the type of patient when it came to putting a needle and thread through skin.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, we’ll patch you up back at your place.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock head back to 221B to attend to Sherlock's wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. Descriptions of medical procedure may not be accurate. Do not attempt this at home.

Sherlock’s flat was not quite what John had imagined. For a man who seemed so outwardly put-together, the flat was in an unexpected state of disarray. Newspapers and file folders cluttered almost every flat surface in the living room. Bookshelves bowed under the weight of tomes which displayed a wide range of topics. There were curios everywhere: framed insects, a sampling of various ammunitions, lithographs of toxic and non-toxic mushroom species, a bison skull wearing an uncharacteristically whimsical pair of headphones, and a solitary human skull displayed in a place of honor on the mantle above the fireplace. The state of the kitchen was not an improvement. Lab equipment filled the kitchen table: petri dishes which appeared to harbor various bacteria, flasks and beakers filled with unknown liquids, test tubes and vials, microscope slides and pipettes. At the center of the tableaux was a compound microscope; a slide already secured to the stage awaiting analysis. 

Sherlock slowly removed his Belstaff, wincing as the movement pulled at his injury. He scowled as he noted a few pulled threads on the lapel where the nail must have snagged. Blood had soaked through his shirt and onto the lining. He would need to drop the coat at the dry-cleaners tomorrow to have it properly cleaned. Heaving a sigh Sherlock turned to John who had since removed his own coat and draped it over one of the chairs in the living room; his gun (thankfully unused) was placed on the small table next to it. “The first aid kit is in the bathroom. The lighting in there will be the best for you to do your work by.”

Sherlock led the way through the kitchen and into the small bathroom. Unlike the rest of the flat this room appeared to maintain some modicum of cleanliness. Sherlock fetched the first aid kit from the storage cabinet next to the sink and handed it to John. “I believe you will find everything you need inside.”

John opened the lid and found himself impressed with the contents. This was no ordinary first aid kit. Inside were a suture kit, stethoscope, one-handed tourniquet, burn dressings, and sterile saline along with the usual assortment of more common supplies. Sherlock wasn’t kidding about having everything on hand that he would need. “Where did you get all of this, Sherlock? You can’t just run down to Boots and pick some of this stuff up.”

“I grab what I need from the supply closet at Bart’s. The lock they have on the door is comically easy to pick.”

John chuckled, “You are a ridiculous man, Sherlock Holmes. Now, go ahead remove your shirt and sit yourself down on the toilet seat lid. If I sit on the edge of the tub I should be at just the right height to do this. Do you have any isopropyl alcohol or something I can use for sterilizing?”

“There’s a bottle of isopropyl in the same cabinet the kit came out of; second shelf, on the right.”

John removed the bottle of alcohol as well as a clean towel and began to assemble the items he would need to administer the stitches. While John busied himself Sherlock began to undo the buttons of his shirt. The blood had since dried and caused the fabric to stick to the skin around the wound. Sherlock gave a small hiss as the fabric peeled away from the tender area. Having discarded the ruined shirt on the bathroom floor Sherlock took his place on the toilet lid and waited.

John scrubbed his hands and forearms thoroughly in the sink. Turning back toward Sherlock he paused at the sight of the shirtless man. He was more muscular than John would have expected. Where he expected gangly and weak limbs he found lean muscle. His skin was pale and almost flawless save for a few freckles here and there. There was little body hair to speak of aside for a smattering on his chest and a thin dark trail that led from his navel toward the waistband of his trousers and beyond…

At the realization of where his mind was taking him John snapped his eyes back up and he became aware that Sherlock had been watching him assess his body. John felt his face heat with the embarrassment of being caught out. “Um…let’s get that gash closed up, yeah?” John stammered.

John donned the nitrile gloves that he had grabbed from the kit and sat down on the edge of the tub. Sherlock turned his body to face John and to give him better access to the wound. “The first thing I’m going to do is clean up some of this dried blood. I’m going to use some of the sterile saline to do that as well as use it to irrigate the area. After that I’m going clean the wound out before closing it up. The Betadine swabs I found shouldn’t sting much but there’s probably going to be a little debridement of the tissue which isn’t going to feel very comfortable. Let me know if I’m hurting you, okay?”

“John, do remember that I have had to patch myself up before. I am aware of the potential discomfort I am about to face.”

John smiled, “Well, I wouldn’t be doing my duty as your doctor if I didn’t make you aware of these things, now would I?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “You’re a veterinarian, John.”

“Which is a type of _doctor!_ ” John huffed. “However, as I have no intention of giving you any rabies vaccinations or deworming pills this time around, for all intents and purposes, in this situation I am your human doctor. Now sit still.” John grinned as he picked up the saline, “Good boy.”

John held a flannel under the wound so that the bloodied saline didn’t run down onto Sherlock’s trousers which remained, to John’s astonishment, clean. After the majority of the blood had been washed away John took another flannel and gently patted away the excess saline. He then set to work cleaning out the wound with the Betadine swabs. To keep the skin from pulling too much John placed his hand to the side of the wound as he ran the swab over it. Sherlock could feel the warmth of John’s skin through the nitrile as he gently worked at the injury.

Once he was satisfied that the wound was cleaned sufficiently John traded out his current gloves for a clean pair and picked up the suture pack. “Now, I’m used to administering stitches to patients that are under anesthesia. There is no localized anesthetic in the kit. I will ask you one last time: are you certain you don’t want to go to A&E and have the stitches put in there?”

“Yes, John, I am certain. You are a capable doctor that has cared for both man and beast. I trust in your capability to care for me as well.” Both men flushed pink at the suggestive nature of the statement.

John took a deep breath and exhaled. “Alright, then, let’s get started. The wound isn’t terribly long, but it’s going to take a bit to close up. If you need me to stop for any reason at all let me know and I can tie off, okay?”

“Yes, John.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets his stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not a doctor, still don't play one on TV, still unusre of medical procedure. Still don't try this at home.

The stitches were going to take a bit longer to place than John would have liked, but the location of the wound made it important that the sutures were sturdy. Sherlock huffed a sharp breath through his nose as the needle pierced his skin. John glanced up to gauge Sherlock’s discomfort but continued to work until he was instructed to do otherwise. While John’s hands were skilled and his work was efficient the process was indeed painful and Sherlock could feel his eyes beginning to tear. Screwing his eyes shut Sherlock inhaled through his nose and slowly exhaled through his mouth, willing his mind to find something else to concentrate on rather than the bite and tug of the stitches. When he opened his eyes he gazed down at John who, in order to have the best view of his working area, was mere inches away. As there was a chance he would not be in such an advantageous positon again, Sherlock used this opportunity to catalogue every aspect of John he could take in.

The first thing Sherlock surveyed was John’s hair. From afar the color appeared to be an ordinary variety of sandy blonde. Sherlock was delighted however to find that close up it was actually made up several different shades. Some strands were the color of honey and straw, while others were darker like stained wood. At the temples and peppered throughout was a bit of silvery-gray. There were so many layers. Just like the man himself.

Sherlock’s eyes traveled downward and took in John’s face, his brow furrowed in concentration and upper teeth slightly worrying his bottom lip as he worked. He watched as John’s eyes tracked every synchronized movement of his steady, gentle hands. Every so often John would glance up through his blond lashes to be sure his patient was still comfortable and Sherlock would give an almost imperceptible nod to reassure John that he was fine. Satisfied with the response, John would return the nod along with a warm smile and return focus to his task.

Having John in such close proximity allowed Sherlock to catalogue at least five different scents that made up his essence: shampoo (cheap, but with a decidedly masculine smell), the wool of his jumper which had been dampened by London’s persistently humid air, the tang of the sweat that had resulted from chasing after Sherlock, and a hint of the antiseptic odor that persisted from the clinic. And as John breathed, with each exhale, Sherlock could smell just a hint of tea. The doctor’s breath felt warm on his cool skin.

The sound of John’s voice shook Sherlock out of his mind palace where he was busy filing away his observations. “Alright, you’re all closed up.” 

Sherlock looked down at his chest, astonished. He had been so absorbed in his filing that he hadn’t even noticed John putting in the final sutures.

“I’m just going to put some antibiotic ointment on the site and then cover it up with a bandage. If you want to get up and stretch your legs I don’t need to be sitting to do that.”

Sherlock stretched and placed himself in the middle of the room as he waited for John to collect the ointment and bandaging supplies. He studied the threads that were now a part of his body. The sutures were tight enough to hold the wound closed effectively, but no so tight that it was likely to leave any scarring. Admiring the work, Sherlock raised his hand to touch the stiff thread ends and puckered skin.

“Oi! Don’t touch it!” John rushed over to Sherlock, ointment in hand, “You’ll introduce bacteria and potentially give yourself one hell of an infection.”

Sherlock lowered his hand and looked up, awestruck. “They’re perfect, John. You did a superb job.”

John smiled as he gently dabbed ointment over the injury, “Well, good to see all of that money spent on veterinary school has finally gone to good use.”  
A large sterile gauze pad was removed from its package which Sherlock held in place while John applied the medical tape. Satisfied with his work, John looked up and smiled, “There you go, all finished! Ideally you’ll want to keep the site dry for the next day or two, and the dressing should be changed daily so you can monitor for any infection.” 

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s and answered softly, “Thank you.”

The two men held each other’s gaze, not quite sure what was supposed to happen next. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up in a grin and he let out a low chuckle. “We’re being watched.”

John’s eyes widened and he wheeled around to see who had caught them unawares. Facing the doorway he saw no one. However, when he dropped his gaze, John was met with two green orbs shining back at him from the darkened hallway. “Well hello, Curie,” John chuckled, “Have you snuck up on us to do a bit of spying?”

Sherlock cocked his head in contemplation. “Actually, I’m a bit surprised she has come to investigate at all. Generally if anyone other than me is in the flat she’s off hiding somewhere. Curious.”

Having become bored with the scene before her, Curie slunk off to an unknown corner of the flat leaving the two men alone once more.

“I’m going to go change, John. Feel free to make yourself comfortable. There is tea in the cabinet above the stove if you care to make yourself a cup. I take mine with milk and two sugars.” With a smile Sherlock brushed past John and disappeared into his room.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late and Sherlock offers John to stay the night. They have the "have you got a boyfriend" talk. John catches Curie using the toilet. Awkwardness all around.

Sherlock emerged from his room clad in striped pajama bottoms, gray t-shirt and a blue dressing gown. He eyed John who was seated in the overstuffed burgundy chair, sipping at his tea and flipping through a forensics journal that had been sitting on the coffee table. The man looked utterly at home, as though he had always resided here in 221B. 

Sensing eyes upon him John glanced up from the journal. “Made you a cup as well, though I think your milk is beginning to go a bit off. Impressive collection of body parts you have in there,” John smirked, “Should I be worried?”

Sherlock lowered himself into the leather chair opposite John, took a sip of his tea, and closed his eyes. It was perfect. There was just the right amount of milk. Such an easy thing to be heavy-handed with, but John had gotten it just right. “Hmm…no need to worry yourself, John. The tissue samples were all obtained in quite a non-violent manner from the morgue at Bart’s. I have several experiments I plan on conducting with them, one of which may help me in wrapping up a cold case that Lestrade passed my way a few weeks ago. The pathologist at the morgue fancies me a bit and offers me interesting specimens in the hopes I will give in to her romantic overtures. They have come in quite handy for my work so I have been disinclined to inform her that her feelings are quite unreciprocated.”

John smirked, “Not in the market for a girlfriend at the moment, then?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and narrowed them at John, “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

John raised his eyebrow in response. With the number of heated moments that had passed between them he was fairly certain Sherlock wasn’t straight, but up until this point he could not rule out the possibility of his being bisexual like himself. Feeling a bit bold, he pressed further. “You got a boyfriend, then?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly, “No.”

“Right, okay. So, you’re unattached. Like me. Good. That’s…that’s good.” Feeling suddenly less brave than he had a moment ago, John ducked his head and took a sip of his tea. 

For quite some time the two men sat in companionable silence. John continued to flip through the forensics journal and Sherlock began to sort the details of the case in his mind palace. Having finished off the article he had been reading, John sat the journal on the side table and exhaled a long yawn. “Well, I best head out. I’m knackered and I’m sure you could use a bit of rest, too.” Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, John pushed himself up onto his weary legs.

“Nonsense, John. It’s almost 3 a.m. It will be nearly impossible to find a cab at this hour. You can sleep in my bed. I’m going to be up for quite some time sorting out the details of the case anyway. I’ve got some pajamas you can wear that should fit you well enough. I also have an extra unused toothbrush you are welcome to should you desire it.”

John contemplated the offer. It was true that finding a cab at this hour would be unlikely should he choose to go back to his bedsit. Plus, he had the next couple of days off from the clinic which eliminated his need to be out of bed early. _“Well, that settles it, I guess,”_ he thought. “If it really isn’t an inconvenience that would be great. Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled, “John, you have only known me a short while, but I believe you would agree that someone like me would not allow themselves to be inconvenienced by another individual willingly. You are most welcome to stay. Now, I’ll go fetch you those pajamas so you can prepare yourself for bed.”

Sherlock returned a moment later with a set of pajamas and handed them to John. The bottoms were striped in a manner similar to those Sherlock was already wearing. The shirt, however, was maroon and depicted the periodic table with the phrase “I Wear This Shirt Periodically” printed underneath. John stifled a laugh and looked up at Sherlock, eyebrow raised in inquiry.

Sherlock sighed with an air of disgust and waved at the shirt dismissively. “It was a gag gift from my brother. He seemed to think I would find such a thing amusing.”

John schooled his face into an expression of mock seriousness and nodded his head in an exaggerated manner. “Yes, chemistry jokes, how terribly droll.” Unable to maintain his serious demeanor John let out a giggle, earning himself a scowl from Sherlock.

“If you are quite done having fun at my expense you may feel free to change. I set out the extra toothbrush for you in the bathroom. If you find yourself in need of anything else let me know.” With that Sherlock threw himself down into his chair and steepled his hands under his chin and returned to the task of sorting case details.

John smiled fondly at the ridiculous exchange and headed off to the bathroom to change and prepare for bed. A moment later he returned to the sitting room still clutching his pajamas and wearing a quizzical expression on his face. “Um, Sherlock? Did I just walk in on your cat pissing in the toilet?”

Sherlock shook himself from his mind palace. “Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you to please leave the lid up to allow her access. Curie is trained to perform all of her eliminations in the toilet. Her training has saved me a considerable amount of hassle. I’m afraid, however, that we are still in the process of working on flushing. My apologies, John.” 

“Uh…no worries. I knew cats could be trained to use a toilet, I had just never actually seen it…in action. Right, well, thanks for clearing that up, then.” John turned to exit the room but only got a couple of steps before he turned back. “Thank you again for letting me stay the night. I’ll…um…I’ll see you in the morning, then, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled softly. “Yes, John. Have a pleasant rest.”

“Good. Well, I’ll see you in the morning then.” With their goodnights said, John retired for the evening.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a nightmare and Sherlock makes a confession of his own.

Sherlock estimated he had only been in his mind palace for about an hour when he heard a sound of distress coming from his bedroom where John should have been asleep by this point. Pausing his mental data filing Sherlock concentrated his hearing in the direction of his room. A moment later a soft cry was heard. Getting up from his chair, Sherlock quietly made his way down the hallway and paused outside of the bedroom door. The noises were now becoming more frequent and were increasingly anguished. Turning the knob, Sherlock slowly inched his door open and took a couple of quiet steps into the room. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, but the light from the street below allowed Sherlock to see the silhouette of John tossing about in the bed, duvet kicked to the floor, sheets tangled around his body. In the act of one of his thrashings Sherlock could make out the glint of tear tracks on John’s cheeks. It appeared that John was in the midst of a nightmare. Up until this point it hadn’t occurred to Sherlock that John suffered from PTSD, but what he was currently observing was not the reaction to a run-of-the-mill nightmare.

Stepping to the end of the bed Sherlock called John’s name quietly. When the man didn’t respond he raised his voice. “John. John!.... _John!_ ”

Eyes flying open John sat up quickly in bed and looked around the room, clearly still in the haze of his dream and unaware of his current location. His hair clung to his sweat-soaked brow and his respirations were shallow and elevated. His muscles twitched in preparation to fight or flee. Sherlock gentled his voice and attempted to reassure the man in front of him. “John, listen to me. It’s me, Sherlock. You are currently at 221B Baker Street in London. You are safe. You are not in danger. John, can you hear me?”

Slowly, the nightmare images in John’s vision began to fade and became replaced by the yellow street-light glow of Sherlock’s bedroom. His breathing slowly began to return to normal and he lowered his body back down onto the mattress, his muscles beginning to relax. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a shaky exhale. Removing his hands he focused on the man at the foot of the bed. Sherlock stood silently, shifting his weight nervously with his hands clutched in front of his body. His mouth twitched with the urge to ask questions, but he was clearly holding back and allowing John to take his time. 

John sat up and pushed himself back so he was resting against the headboard. He clasped his hands together in his lap and took a deep breath. “So, as you may have guessed, I suffer from a bit of PTSD.” Sherlock’s head nodded a small affirmation. “The nightmares have tapered off a bit recently, but I still have them more frequently than I care to. Yes, they are about my time in Afghanistan. I saw a lot of good kids die. I tried to do what I could out there in the field but, as you know, I’m a veterinarian not a field surgeon. The dreams usually center on the ones I couldn’t save.” John shrugged, “I guess I’m still a bit haunted by it all.” John fell silent and stared at his hands unsure of what else to say. He was embarrassed that Sherlock had been forced to witness one of his episodes and began to wish that he had declined the offer to stay over.

Sherlock gently cleared his throat and shifted his gaze to the floor. “I have nightmares as well. I was doing a bit of undercover work for my brother overseas…Serbia…and I was captured. I would not give them the information they demanded and as a result I endured multiple torture sessions in an attempt to get me to talk. You saw some of the evidence of those sessions when you stitched me up this evening. I was held in their hideout for approximately a week before a team was able to come to my aid. I know my situation is nothing compared to what you endured in combat, but I just wanted you to know that you are not alone in your struggle and that there is no need to feel embarrassment around me.”

John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. He had noticed some of the scarring on Sherlock’s abdomen and some poorly healed wounds on his back but he had just assumed that they were a byproduct of his mad dashes around London pursuing criminals. Never in a million years would he have guessed that this amazing man would have been subjected to such inhumanity. He could feel new tears beginning to form and he blinked quickly to chase them away. “Jesus,” John whispered hoarsely, “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock squared his shoulders in an attempt to dismiss the gravity of the topic. “There was no way you could have known, John. Besides, it’s in the past and I try to keep my focus on keeping the current criminal element of London in check rather than dwelling on that unfortunate time.”

Sherlock began to shuffle his feet again and cleared this throat, indicating he was about to say something he was nervous about. “John…um…would it make you more comfortable if I were to stay here with you? That is, I thought perhaps having a familiar person in the room might make you feel more at ease. Safe.” The words began to tumble hurriedly from Sherlock’s mouth as he became more self-conscious, “I don’t have to be in the bed with you…unless that would make you more comfortable. But if the thought of that makes you less comfortable I can simply sit in the chair or I could retreat back to the living room entirely and give you your privacy.” 

Sherlock shut his mouth with a sharp click and pressed his lips into a thin line as he waited what would surely be John’s rejection. What he didn’t expect, however, was for John to offer him a small smile and pat the space on the bed next to him. “Let’s try that and see how it goes.”

Sherlock blinked several times in disbelief. When his brain finally came back online he removed his dressing gown and draped it over the back of the chair next to his dresser. He then moved to the empty side of the bed and lay down on his back atop the sheet. He turned his head to face John who had returned to his prone position on the mattress as well. “It is unlikely that I will sleep as I still have details from the case to organize, but I will be here should you need me. Goodnight, John.”

John turned on his side to face Sherlock. He closed his eyes and allowed a sigh of relief to escape his lips. “Goodnight, Sherlock…and thank you.” 

“Anytime, John.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys wake up together. Fluff, morning-wood, breakfast and a first kiss ensue.

September 29, 2013

The first thing Sherlock’s mind registered was that he was warm. A brief analysis revealed the cause to be a beam of sunlight which had made its way through the gap in the curtains and lazily settled on his body. Sherlock scowled, eyes still closed. He didn’t remember falling asleep last night but must have done as the angle of the sun indicated that it was well after 8 a.m. The next thing Sherlock’s mind registered was a gentle pressure surrounding his left hand. Cracking his eyes open against the bright light Sherlock’s field of vision was filled with the sight of John asleep on his stomach. Shifting his head slightly, Sherlock saw their hands had found each other during the night and had become entwined in one another. He stared at how the digits weaved together and how John’s hand, being smaller, fit perfectly into his. His skin looked starkly white next to John’s which still held the tan of the Afghan desert. The grip was loose yet still carried a feeling of possessiveness. Sherlock wondered if John had slept better having someone to hold onto and ground him. A tether that could pull him back to reality should his nightmares try to lead him away.

Sherlock was so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed John had awoken and was observing him with a sleepy grin on his face. “Good morning. A bit early to be doing such heavy lifting with that big brain of yours, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John. “Oh! You’re awake! I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep last night and...John, I apologize for…” Sherlock made to pull his hand out of John’s, but the other man tightened his grip and held fast.

“It’s fine. It was quite a nice way to wake up, actually,” John smiled more broadly.

Sherlock relaxed his body and returned a small smile. “I typically find it difficult to sleep after wrapping up a case as my mind is busy sorting details. However, if this is how I am to wake should my body decide it needs rest, I do believe I am...amenable.”

The two men lay in the morning sun and took each other in. From his new vantage point Sherlock could better see the small laugh-lines at the corner of John’s eyes and the faded freckles earned from the many hours spent under the Afghan sun. John smiled and rubbed his thumb lazily against the side of Sherlock’s finger. He closed his eyes he let out a sigh of contentment, which was followed a moment later by an uncharacteristically loud protest from his stomach. John chuckled sheepishly. “Shall I make us some breakfast? It didn’t look like you had much in the way of groceries, but it looked like you at least had enough for me to make some eggs and toast.”

Sherlock groaned, not wishing to leave the comfort of his bed or John. “Mmm…not hungry.”

“Well, I for one am famished as I haven’t eaten since dinner last night. If I were to venture a guess I would say that it’s probably been even longer for you. You need to eat something, Sherlock, even if it’s just a few bites. Come on, up you get.”

John gave Sherlock’s hand a final squeeze and rolled onto his back to stretch out his arms and legs, causing the t-shirt he was wearing to ride up a bit, offering Sherlock a tease of the skin beneath. Sherlock’s eyes couldn’t help but take in the soft bulge which was apparent in John’s pajama pants, evidence of his waning morning erection. The observation caused Sherlock’s cheeks to warm and heat to begin to pool in his own groin. Thankfully he was still lying on his side which helped to camouflage his own growing arousal to some degree. To his relief John rolled off the bed and ducked into the loo which offered Sherlock a moment to calm his body into a more acceptable state of being. When he felt confident that his body would not betray him, Sherlock made his way out to the kitchen to gather the items John would need to prepare their breakfast.

To John’s delight all of the food items appeared to be safe for human consumption. This had been a legitimate concern of his, having seen the state of the refrigerator the night before. Sherlock had even managed to find a jar of strawberry jam tucked at the back. John used a spoon to dig out a large dollop and placed it on a piece of toast for Sherlock. To his delight it appeared that the younger man had a bit of a sweet tooth and the toast was eaten with enthusiasm. John filed away this knowledge for future reference.

The two sat at the kitchen table picking at their breakfast and sipping their tea as they read over the day’s papers looking for anything Sherlock might deem worthy of pursuing as a possible case. After finishing his third cup of tea, John looked up at the clock on the wall to see that it was just past eleven. “I should probably head back to my place and get cleaned up,” John said reluctantly, “Can’t lounge about in your pajamas all day.” 

“Nonsense, John. You have nowhere to be today or tomorrow.”

“Well, I don’t have a change of clothes and I don’t fancy rotating between the same items for the next couple of days. Besides, I’m running low on groceries in my own flat and could stand to pick a few things up myself.” 

Rising from his spot at the kitchen table, John made his way back to the bedroom to get dressed. He sighed as he pulled on last night’s clothing. He didn’t want their morning to end. When he had awoke to find his hand in Sherlock’s it felt natural, as though they had been waking up together for years. Their friendship was quite obviously metamorphosing into something deeper and he was glad, the thought of it bringing a smile to his face. While he didn’t want to make presumptions, he believed that Sherlock was happy about the subtle change in their relationship as well. 

After brushing his teeth John returned to the living room where he retrieved his handgun from the table where he had placed it last night and tucked it back into its spot at the back of his jeans. He grabbed his coat from off the back of the armchair and draped it over his arm. Sherlock remained seated at the kitchen table, eyes downcast, obviously unhappy with John’s departure as well. John’s hand hovered over the door knob and he was about to thank Sherlock for letting him stay the night when Sherlock interrupted. “Would you like to come back this evening for dinner? I can order in some Indian food from down the street and we can watch whatever ridiculous television shows you prefer to relax with in the evening.”

“Well, you certainly know how to charm a bloke,” John teased, “How could I resist? Should I come by around, say, six?”

Sherlock smiled. “That sounds perfect, John. I’ll see you tonight then?”

“See you tonight.”

Sherlock raised himself from his chair and stepped forward to open the door for John. Before his brain could overthink it John took a step forward, tilted his head up, and placed a chaste kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock froze. His eyes blinked rapidly, his brain appearing to have short-circuited from the unexpected stimulus. Offering a parting smile to the blushing detective, John opened the door and descended the stairs down to Baker Street.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson knows what's up...

The cab pulled up to the kerb in front of Baker Street just before six. John paid the driver and shouldered the small bag he had brought with him as he stepped from the car. His palms began to feel sweaty and his heartrate increased as he approached the door to the building. He was unsure why his body was having this response. It wasn’t as though this was his first time meeting Sherlock. There was no reason to be nervous. _“Except this time it’s a date,”_ he thought to himself. He had spent far too much time choosing clothes and assessing himself in the mirror for it to be anything less. But, if the morning’s events were anything to go by, there was also the possibility of it being more. Taking a deep breath John rang the doorbell. The door opened a moment later revealing a small elderly woman.

“Oh, you must be John. Come in, dear! I’m Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s landlady, _not his housekeeper_ ,” she turned and called up the stairs. Turning back she clapped her hands together and beamed at John. “Oh, it’s so nice to see that Sherlock has met himself a nice young man! And a veterinarian, too!”

John felt his cheeks flush at the woman’s words. He looked up when he caught sight of Sherlock’s in the doorway upstairs. 

“Mrs. Hudson, I would appreciate if you did not interrogate my guests.”

Mrs. Hudson tutted, “Mind your manners, Sherlock.” She leaned in to John and lowered her voice to a register she assumed only John could hear. “He’s been flitting about the flat all afternoon. A touch of nervous energy, I think.” Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes in an attempt to downplay his anxiety. Mrs. Hudson patted John on the arm and made to return to her own flat. “Well, you two boys have a lovely evening. Don’t you two worry about making too much noise upstairs, it’s almost time for my herbal soother and Sherlock can tell you I tend to sleep quite soundly afterward. Have a good night, dears.” Both men blushed and appeared to take a sudden interest in the floorboards. Mrs. Hudson’s door closed quietly behind her and the two men spent several moments in awkward silence. 

“So…that was your landlady.”

“Yes.”

“Seemed like a nice enough woman.”

“Yes.”

“Think she’d share her herbal soothers with us?” John grinned.

Sherlock smiled. “I’m almost certain she gave me the wrong batch of scones once when my brother was visiting. There is simply no other explanation as to my enjoyment of his company. We spent the entire evening playing ‘Operation’. _‘Operation’_ , John!”

John laughed. “Well, it sounds like he enjoyed your company as well.”

“My brother is in a perpetual state of dieting and hadn’t consumed any of the scones, yet he saw fit to take advantage of my compromised mental state for his amusement. He’s a rubbish big brother.”

John let out a giggle as he pictured the scene in his head. Sherlock shivered. God, that giggle; the one made Sherlock’s stomach flutter just as it had the day they had met. The corner of his mouth turned up as he recalled the memory and he smiled down at John who remained in the building’s entryway.

“Would you like to come up?”

John smiled back at Sherlock as he mounted the stairs. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wining and dining

John stepped across the threshold and into the entryway of the flat. He unshouldered his duffle and sat it next to the door. Sherlock spied the bag and raised is eyebrow at John.

“Um…I didn’t want to, ah, presume anything, but I thought I would come prepared with a few clothes and… things… this time. Just in case I need to kip here again.”

John rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. He began to worry that he had in fact read the situation that morning entirely wrong. He had been so sure that what he had seen in the detective’s eyes (and groin) while they lay together in bed had been reciprocated attraction, but now John frowned as he tried to determine where he may have miscalculated. 

His thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock spoke. “Your forethought is appreciated, John. I’ll take your things to the bedroom. There is a menu for the Indian restaurant on the table. Choose anything you find appetizing. I’ll come back and place our order momentarily.”

John watched as Sherlock walked from the room. It was apparent the man had also put thought into his appearance for the evening. His hair was styled yet soft, every curl appearing to have been placed just so. The aubergine shirt he was wearing hugged Sherlock’s torso and John could see the muscles in his upper back ripple when his arms shifted as he walked. Black trousers hugged his narrow hips and stretched tantalizingly over his backside and thighs, both kept firm and toned from running through the city streets. Even his shoes were posh and appeared to be made out of buttery leather. The entire outfit was clearly bespoke, and what a wonderful job the tailor had done in accentuating every curve and plane of the man’s body.

Sherlock disappeared from view and John reluctantly turned his attention to the takeaway menu on the table. He scanned the various selections and felt his salivary glands go into overdrive. John loved Indian food, but living off of his small Army pension and locum work prohibited him from indulging in takeaway. The last time he could remember having Indian food was about a week before he had shipped out for Afghanistan. He had passed a small food cart on the corner near the tube station and decided to indulge in some palak paneer and a piece of naan to go. The memory caused John’s stomach to rumble. He found a pencil and a scrap of paper buried amongst the lab equipment on the table and scribbled down his selections. He felt a bit guilty about the amount of food he was ordering but knew there would be enough for leftovers the next day.

John’s thoughts of takeaway were interrupted when Sherlock reentered the room. The lighting in the kitchen allowed him to more easily see the outline of the bandage on Sherlock’s chest.

“How are the stitches holding up? Have you changed the bandage yet today?”

“They are holding up very well. I changed the dressing after my shower earlier, and yes, I was sure to keep the area dry. I also reapplied the antibiotic ointment.”

“Good, good. Um…do you mind if I have a look myself, just to be sure everything looks okay? Not that I don’t trust your judgement but—"

“You would feel better seeing for yourself as you believe I am more cavalier with my health and may ignore signs of a more serious health risk such as infection.”  
John shrugged his shoulders and nodded in assent. He was going to try to be polite about it but Sherlock had hit the nail on the head. The nonchalance Sherlock had shown toward the entire situation had indeed caused John to worry that the man would ignore the signs of infection. For all the brilliance the detective possessed he had the capacity to be infuriatingly daft at times.

Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt to allow John access to the dressing. John gave a mental shake of his head. It was a testament to the tailor’s skill that the buttons were able to hold the tight fabric together at all. Sherlock pulled the shirt aside and exposed his patched pectoral. The bandage was placed a bit crooked and the medical tape was a bit wonky in spots, but for all intents and purposes the man had done an admirable job by himself. John stepped forward and carefully loosened the tape around three of the edges so he could pull the gauze back.

The sutures did in fact appear to be holding well. There was no noticeable redness or discharge that would have been immediate cause for concern. There was still a slight bit of inflammation which did not surprise him as he had not administered the stitches under the most optimal of conditions. Satisfied with what he saw, John lowered the gauze back into place, smoothed the tape back down and left Sherlock to re-fasten the buttons of the sinfully tight shirt. “Everything looks fine so far. Have you had much pain at the site?”

“It was a bit sore this morning but I attribute that to having slept on my left side. There has been no unusual discomfort since getting up this morning.”

“Good. Well, we’ll continue to keep an eye on it and in about ten days or so we can look at taking the stitches out barring any infection. I really do wish you had gone to A&E to have someone stitch you up properly and give you something more than a bit of antibiotic ointment.”

Sherlock huffed. “There was no need to go to A&E when I have my own private doctor who is more than competent at administering a few sutures.”

“I’m a veterinarian, Sherlock.”

“Which is also a type of _doctor_ , John.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment then burst into a fit of laughter. 

“Turning my own words against me now, are we?” John chuckled.

“A perfectly reasonable argument tactic, John.”

The laugher between them began to subside until they were left with intermittent giggles which would erupt anew when they made eye contact with each other. Sherlock was eventually able to school his face into a more serious expression as he picked up his phone. “I should get our food order placed. While the proprietor tends to push my orders to the front of the queue the restaurant will be entering the dinner rush soon.” Sherlock tapped out the numbers on the phone’s keypad and hit ‘send’.

“Another former client of yours I’m assuming?”

“Mm, yes. I located a priceless heirloom that had been stolen by a disgruntled employee.” The call connected on the other end and Sherlock turned his attention to submitting their order. John’s stomach gave another protest as he listened to Sherlock read out their order.

“Our food should be here in about twenty minutes,” he announced, ending the call, “I have some Riesling chilling in the refrigerator if you would like a glass while we wait. I also picked up some lager should you prefer that instead.”

“A glass of wine sounds lovely, thank you.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Implied sexy-times ensue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps someday I will go back and actually write said "sexy-times". I love reading it, but I feel like I'd be shit at writing it. Also, the quiz show they are watching is 'Would I Lie to You'.

John took the glass of wine that had been proffered and settled himself at the end of the couch. He toed off his shoes and tucked up his right foot under his left leg. Sherlock had started a fire in the fireplace and John watched from across the room as the flames danced as he sipped his wine. The detective entered the room with his own glass and seated himself on John’s left, leaving a few feet of space between them. He grabbed the television remote from off the table and handed it over before settling back against the cushions. 

“Whatever you wish to view, John, so long as it isn’t dull.”

“Tall order, that,” replied John as he hit the power button.

John scrolled through several channels, all of which would likely send the other man into a boredom-induced coma. Eventually he settled on something he thought they would both enjoy. “Let’s see how you like this, yeah? It’s a gameshow where the contestant on one team has to read out a statement on a card. The other team then asks questions to determine whether or not the story is true or a lie. You should be brilliant at this.”

And brilliant he was. Sherlock had correctly predicted the outcome of all but one of the contestant’s stories through body language and other tells. He bemoaned the fact that he would have gotten them all correct had one of the contestants not feigned difficulty in coming up with details of their story, thus leading him to a false conclusion. As he was about to explain to John how that should be considered cheating the doorbell rang announcing the arrival of their dinner. Sherlock extricated himself from the couch and trotted downstairs to retrieve their food. They had ordered an assortment of dishes and the smells that wafted upstairs with the breeze from the open door made John’s mouth water. Sherlock returned upstairs with two large paper bags in hand.

“How much do I owe you for my share?” John asked.

“No need, John. I put our meal on my brother’s credit card. It will be weeks before he notices the charge if at all. Would you like a lager? While the Riesling should pair acceptably with the food, I believe you generally prefer a lager with Indian food.”

John smiled at the accurate deduction. “Yeah, that would be great, thanks!”

Sherlock made his way to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a lager for both of them as well as plates and silverware. He lined up all of the food containers on the table and formed a mini buffet. John loaded his plate with enthusiasm: Palak paneer, chana masala, pakora, naan, rice, and a couple of gulab jamun. Sherlock was considerably more conservative with the piling of his place and took small portions of only a couple of dishes. John frowned critically at how little food was on the plate but kept his comments to himself. As if he had read his mind, Sherlock sighed and added a small piece of naan to his plate.

“You will find I tend to eat very little as digestion slows down my thought processes. However, I will indulge for your benefit.”

“Thank you.” John smiled at the concession as he eased back into the cushions to savor his meal.

The gameshow they had been watching had since ended and John had switched the television to some sort of time travelling program Sherlock didn’t understand but the other man clearly enjoyed. It was no matter anyway as the only thing he was able to focus on was the small distance between the two of them. He was sure they were both on the same page as to where their relationship was headed based on how they had woken up together that morning, but Sherlock knew that it was foolish to form a theory without gathering enough data, and the best data he could gather would be gained through closing the distance between them. Finishing the last few bites of his dinner Sherlock leaned forward and set his empty plate on the table. It was joined soon after by John’s. Using a trip to the loo as an excuse, Sherlock removed himself from the sofa. When he returned he seated himself slightly closer to John but not so close that it would immediately be obvious. At one point John had leaned forward to take a pull from his beer and Sherlock used the opportunity to shift himself a tiny fraction closer leaving the two of them with only about a foot between.

Sherlock was slouched down against the back of the sofa with his hands resting on his stomach. Ever so slowly he began to lower his right hand to the cushion between them. At an agonizingly slow pace his digits crept closer to the side of John’s leg. It was all the man could do to keep his breathing even and pretend to be engaged in the television show so as to not alert John as to what was going on. When his hand was mere centimeters from John’s denim-clad thigh he stopped and held his position. His next move would be paramount and would tell him exactly what he needed to know. Before he allowed his nerves to get the better of himself Sherlock raised his hand and casually placed it on John’s leg just above his knee. He held his breath in anticipation. His heart was beating so quickly he thought it was going to burst through his ribcage. Everything else around him faded into the background as his full attention focused on his hand on John’s leg. It even felt as though time itself hand ground to a halt, seconds feeling like hours. 

As if it were happening in slow-motion, John reached his left hand forward and interlaced his fingers with Sherlock’s, offering a small squeeze to reassure the younger man that his touch was welcome. Sherlock let go of the breath he’d forgotten he was holding and squeezed back. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John smiling. His confidence buoyed, he leaned to the side and pillowed his head on John’s shoulder and sighed in contentment. The wool of John’s jumper was soft on his cheek and he nuzzled against it, closing his eyes as he cataloged the texture. Sherlock felt a slight pressure at the crown of his head where John was pressing a gentle kiss into his curls. Turning his body ever so slightly, he pressed his own lips to John’s neck, just beneath his jaw, which elicited a soft moan. 

John’s free hand found the back of Sherlock’s head and buried itself in the riotous curls, gently pressing the man to him in encouragement. Sherlock obliged and continued to place tiny kisses along John’s jawline. He could smell just a hint of John’s aftershave; woodsy with an undertone of sandalwood. The tip of his tongue darted out and probed, curious if the skin would taste the same as it smelled. John inhaled sharply through his nose and eyes flew open at the sensation. Sherlock raised his head, concerned he had done something wrong. John’s eyes met his; the dilated pupils appeared to engulf the irises. Color sat high in his cheeks and his breath came in short bursts. His tongue peeked out and licked his lower lip unconsciously. Swallowing hard his eyes flicked to Sherlock’s mouth. 

Having gathered the necessary data from the non-verbal cues, Sherlock leaned in the final few inches and pressed his mouth to John’s. His lips were soft, dry but not chapped, and his own mouth glided over them with ease. The first few pecks between them were tentative and chaste, each man gauging the other’s reaction. John tipped his head slightly to the right to achieve a better angle and, in the process, intensified the connection. Sherlock’s unoccupied hand gripped the cushion of the sofa as he tentatively passed his tongue over John’s lips which eagerly parted to welcome him. Tracing over teeth, soft palate and tongue, Sherlock could detect hints of the complex flavors of curry and lager that still lingered in John’s mouth. Pulling back slightly, John nipped at Sherlock’s bottom lip, causing the younger man to gasp as of wave of arousal washed over his body. He released John’s hand and in one fluid motion pivoted his body to straddle John’s lap. His hands pressed into the back of the sofa as he leaned forward to recapture John’s mouth with his. John wound his arms around Sherlock’s slim waist and pulled him further onto his lap, their mutual arousal evident to one another through their trousers. Sherlock let out a low growl and canted his pelvis into John’s. They continued to pant and rut against each other, the low murmur of the television and the soft creak of the leather sofa the only other sounds in the flat.

Sherlock pulled away slowly from John’s lips and rested their foreheads together, chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. “John Watson, may I take you to bed?”

A shiver of anticipation ran through John’s body and his hands clutched at the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “Oh, god yes!”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post-coital discussion of living arrangements.

September 29th, 2013-- later

The men lay together, entwined in their post-coital haze, awaiting their heartbeats and breaths to return to normal. Sherlock’s head rested on John’s shoulder, his hand running a lazy circuit up and down the man’s arm. John’s body gave a slight shiver as the sweat on his skin began to cool prompting Sherlock to tighten his arms around him. They both drifted in and out of sleep as the room darkened with the onset of evening. They shifted positions several times during their slumber but they managed to remain wrapped around each other. John was the first to regain consciousness. As he awoke his brain registered a low, rhythmic hum that was amplified from having his ear to the pillow. Turning his head slowly he found Curie curled up on the other half of the pillow, eyes closed and purring contently. John smiled to himself. _“Well, the gang’s all here.”_ Closing his eyes, John turned his head back toward Sherlock and slowly and felt himself begin to drift off once more.

“I think you should move in.”

John’s body jerked, startled by the sudden outburst. “What?”

“I think you should move in, John. Here, with me.”

John turned on his side and propped himself up on his elbow, the unwelcome jostling causing Curie to jump down from the bed. “What are you on about? We hardly know each other. Do you really think moving in together is a good idea?”

“You obviously felt we knew each other well enough to engage in intercourse.” 

Well, John could hardly argue that point.

“Besides, John, your moving in is logical from a number of points: It would put you closer to the clinic, it would be a vast improvement over that wretched bedsit you are currently living in, the rent would be most reasonable with us splitting the cost, and, most importantly, it would be more convenient for you to accompany me on cases. There is another bedroom upstairs that you could have in order to maintain the level of privacy you would no doubt desire to maintain this early on in a relationship.”

John raised his eyebrow at the last statement. “So, we’re in a relationship now, are we?”

Sherlock pulled away from John and averted his eyes. His mouth opened and shut several times as he fought for words. “Well, yes. I thought you were mutually interested in pursuing…that is to say I thought perhaps we might…,” Sherlock huffed in frustration as he tried to formulate a coherent thought. “John Watson, I would very much like for us to be in an exclusive relationship. If you are amenable, that is.”

“Such a way with words you have.” John teased as resettled on his back pulled Sherlock towards him, placing a soft kiss on his temple. “I would very much like to be in a relationship with you, Sherlock. I am also amenable to moving in and seeing how it goes. We’ll have to set a few ground rules, but I think we can make it work.”

Sherlock’s countenance became very serious and he shifted his body so he could look John squarely in the eye. “I should warn you that I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? As my future flat mate I feel you should know the worst about me. ”

John laughed. “Sherlock, I’ve already seen the body parts in the refrigerator. I don’t think a bit of violin practice is going to send me running for the hills.”

Sherlock relaxed and buried his head near John’s shoulder. “Good. I’ll have my brother arrange to have your things brought over tomorrow.”

“Well, I don’t have much; shouldn’t take too long.”

“Excellent. That will leave us with most of the day free.”

“Most of the day free? For what?”

Sherlock launched himself on top of John and rolled his pelvis. “This,” he growled.

John gave a startled laugh. “Well, we’ll have to be sure my things are moved in as early as possible then.”

“My brother’s minions are nothing if not efficient, John.”

John leaned up and kissed Sherlock on the tip of his nose. “You’re an absolute berk, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled and returned the kiss. “But I’m _your_ berk now, John Watson.”

“That you are,” John chuckled, “That you are.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude to set up the angst

November 13th, 2013

It had been a little over two months since John had moved in with Sherlock. Had either man been asked even six months ago where they saw themselves neither man would have believed that this was the direction their lives would have taken. Had Dr. Chapman not been ill the day Sherlock had come into the clinic John never would have met the extraordinary man he now shared his life with and, ultimately his life likely would have journeyed down a much darker path. Sherlock was certain that without John by his side to ground him he eventually would have made a mistake during a case which would have cost him his life. It wasn’t to say that life with each other was flawless and without its own unique set of challenges. There was the occasional row over eyeballs in the microwave and caustic chemicals kept next to tea, banal television programming and the incessant argument that sleep was a necessary function of the human body. However, despite the challenges, the two of them had fallen easily into their new living arrangements; John spending almost as much time in Sherlock’s bed as his own. Some evenings ended in gasps and moans, others in cuddles and soft snores. 

For all the affection they showed toward each other through stolen kisses at crime scenes and late night cups of tea, neither had yet to profess their love for the other. Sherlock had spent so much of his life building an emotional wall to protect him from others that he was still unsure if what he was feeling for John was actually love. John was certain that what he felt for Sherlock could not be mistaken for anything other than love, but he understood and respected the detective’s need to approach the unknown logically. It was one of the little idiosyncrasies that had endeared the man to John in the first place. Respect for Sherlock’s analytical process wouldn’t stop John from nearly blurting out the words on a near daily basis, however. The words always seemed to be on the tip of his tongue. They were there when he woke in the morning, when he passed Sherlock his morning toast, before he left for the clinic, when he returned from the clinic, when he got up from the table to clear dinner away, before he retired to bed. The need to say the words nearly drove him mad at times and he would have to leave the room for fear he wouldn’t be able to hold back.

It came as a surprise to both of them when in the end it was Sherlock who was the first to utter those three words. The declaration did not come during a candle-lit dinner, or as they lay together after taking pleasure in one another. No, Sherlock would finally avow his love for John in a cold, dark alleyway as he clutched John to his chest, frantically begging him to hold on until the ambulance arrived.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets seriously hurt on a case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Descriptions of blood ahead.  
> This chapter borrows a hint of The Six Napoleons

November 13th, 2013--Evening

The case had started out as a simple, yet intriguing, case of robbery. A number of homes throughout some of the more affluent neighborhoods of London had been broken into, limited-edition plaster replicas of the bust of Venus de Milo the only item missing and the only common thread between the crimes. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to conclude that one of the artisans had hidden an item of great value inside one of the busts with the intent to smuggle it out of the country for re-sale on the black market. Before the stuffed statuary could leave the country, however, it had been sold, leaving the suspect no option but to break into the house of each patron that had purchased one of the six busts in the hopes of retrieving the one with the valuables hidden within.

Sherlock and John had tracked the suspect to a small Italian restaurant in Soho. So as to not bring attention to themselves they stayed concealed in the shadows of an alleyway across the street. John stood with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an attempt to keep warm. The temperatures that week had been unseasonably cold and the wind that was blowing was making it feel even colder.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, how much longer are we going to stand here? I’m starting to loose feeling in my toes!”

“We need to wait for him to leave the restaurant, John. He is no doubt going to head back to his flat from here at which point we will apprehend him. It was unfortunate that he felt the need to stop off for a celebratory dinner. A bit premature on his part, I think.”

Giving a short huff of amusement, John removed his hands from his coat pockets and rubbed them together furiously in an attempt to get the blood circulating. If there was a chance he was going to need to use his gun he wanted to be sure he had adequate feeling in his hands to do so. His skin had finally warmed and he was about to shove his hands back in his coat pockets when his body was enveloped in dark wool. Startled, John tilted his head and saw Sherlock smiling down at him. Having taken pity on him for lack of a good jacket, Sherlock had stepped behind John and cocooned him in the folds of the Belstaff, their combined body head taking away some of the chill. Sherlock rested his chin on top of John’s head causing the shorter man to smile at the convenience of their height difference. They stood quietly, enjoying each other’s warmth as they waited for the suspect to make his move from the restaurant.

“John, it looks like he’s getting ready to settle his bill, get ready!”

John hissed as Sherlock pulled away and the cold night air wrapped itself around his body once more. Shivers from the cold were soon replaced by those from adrenaline and he mentally prepared himself for the confrontation.

As the suspect approached the kerb in front of the restaurant, John and Sherlock stepped from the shadows of the alleyway into the streetlight. Their intent was to make their way across the street casually, posing as just a couple of friends heading out for a meal, but the suspect recognized them immediately and took off running, knowing that his time had run out. John and Sherlock immediately gave chase, their hot breath billowing in the cold air. 

The suspect made a sudden turn down an alleyway and Sherlock called after John, “You follow him! I should be able to catch him at the other end!” John turned down the alleyway as Sherlock continued on around the side of the building.

John caught sight of the suspect ahead of him and quickened his pace. He saw the man stumble over a cardboard box which slowed him enough to give John the advantage. The man was clearly not accustomed to running while being pursued and was beginning to visibly slow. John reached behind him for his gun knowing that the man was not likely to go down willingly. As John drew nearer he saw the suspect suddenly stop in his tracks and spin around. He began to call out to instruct the man to put his hands above his head when his foot made contact with a patch of ice that had formed around a leaky bin behind one of the businesses. Not having time to react, John fell backward, his head hitting the pavement with a loud ‘crack’. John gasped and rolled to his side, his vision swimming. He still had hold of his gun and was beginning to prop himself up when he heard the report of a gun and felt a sudden, searing pain in his upper thigh. John slumped back to the pavement as the pain overwhelmed him, the distraught cry of a consulting detective growing louder in his ears.

Sherlock threw himself down at John’s side. “John! JOHN! No, no, no, NO! Oh god, there’s so much blood! John, John can you look at me? Please! What do I do? What do I DO!?”

John blinked his eyes, his vision still blurry from the blow to the pavement, but he could make out Sherlock ripping his scarf from his neck with shaking hands. He didn’t think it was possible, but the man looked even more pale than normal, his eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. John yelled in pain as the scarf was bound tightly around his leg. He managed to tilt his head down a bit and felt his stomach twist at the amount of blood he saw. The presence of that much blood meant it was likely that his femoral artery had been nicked. _“That’s bad,”_ his brain supplied. Sherlock pressed on the wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, causing John to cry out again. Using his other hand to fish his phone out of his pocket Sherlock dialed 999. John could already hear sirens faintly in the distance and he suspected that Mycroft had been alerted of the pursuit via the CCTV and had dispatched emergency vehicles at the first sign of trouble. _“That’s good,”_ his brain supplied sluggishly.

John’s attention was brought back around when his torso was raised up from the pavement. Sherlock slipped his phone back in to his pocket and had scooped John up, pressing his body to his chest, his other hand maintaining compression on the wound. John looked up at Sherlock. He was scared. The man who’d had guns held to his head and knives to his throat had never looked more terrified than he looked right now with John bleeding out in his arms.

“John, please, you have to hold on. The medics are on their way. Stay with me John, stay with me. You can’t leave me. I could not go on without you. Please.” John could feel Sherlock’s body begin to shudder as he tried to hold in his sobs.

Sherlock continued speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “John, I need you to stay with me because I love you. I have never loved anyone in my life as much as I love you. If you were to leave it would destroy me. You need to hold on. Please. _Please…_ ” Sherlock was unable to keep his composure any longer and his body convulsed with the force of the sobs. 

John’s own eyes began to fill with tears. Sherlock had once told him that love could be a dangerous disadvantage. _“And my death will be the final proof.”_  
Mustering all the strength he could, John raised his arm to grip Sherlock’s unbloodied hand. His mouth felt devoid of all moisture but he willed his lips to form the words he had desired to say for so long, his hand beginning to slip from Sherlock’s as his world went dark: “I love you, too.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in hospital

November 14, 2013

John lay with his eyes closed and took inventory of the situation: quiet yet steady beep from a heart monitor, tug of a nasal cannula draped across his cheek, scratchy bedding against his skin, and the smell of antiseptic that he recognized all too well. His eyes fluttered open, confirming that he was in hospital. This actually came as a bit of a surprise to John. He had felt his blood pressure dropping lower and lower laid cradled in Sherlock’s arms in the alleyway, blood emptying from his body at an alarming rate. The sensation was much the same at it had been after he had been shot in Afghanistan, only this time he had traded hot sand for cold pavement. _“Well, looks like I cheated Death once again,”_ he thought. 

Turning his head John saw that Sherlock’s coat was draped over the plastic chair at his bedside, the owner nowhere in sight. He smiled groggily to himself. _“Can’t be too far away. Never goes anywhere without that bloody coat of his. Even in summer. Can’t believe he hasn’t given himself heatstroke running around in that thing. Probably out in the hall on the phone with Lestrade begging for a new case. The man can’t sit still. Love that about him, though.”_

“Love.” John’s smile broadened at the word. It had taken him nearly bleeding out in an alleyway, but it had finally pushed them both into confessing the depth of their affection for one another. Sherlock had seen fit to grant John passage beyond his emotional walls, allowing himself to love and to be loved despite how much it had surely terrified him to do so. And, now that the words had been spoken between them and made real, John never wanted to stop saying them, the desire to scream the words aloud almost visceral. 

John’s eyelids began to droop with the pull of the morphine in his IV drip. There was a dull ache in his thigh and at the back of his head that he assumed the morphine was helping to keep in check. As he was about to be pulled back into sleep the door opened and Sherlock stepped softly into the room. He was concentrated on fiddling with the plastic lid of his coffee cup but stopped short when he saw that John was awake. He stood stock-still, as though he were afraid that any sudden move would shatter the illusion, returning John to his unconscious state. Breath hitched in his chest as he tried to control his emotions, the hand holding his coffee offering up the slightest of tremors. The two men blinked at each other and John noted the dark circles and red-rimmed appearance of Sherlock’s eyes. Clues to the physical fatigue and emotional drain Sherlock must have been feeling.

Extending his arm, John hoarsely beckoned to Sherlock. “Come here, love.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and produced a noise that could only be described as a cross between a laugh and a sob. He threw his coffee down into the trash bin and rushed to John’s bedside where he collapsed onto the doctor’s stool and buried his head in John’s side, his hands closing tightly around the man’s forearm. His shoulders heaved as he drew in large gulps of air in an attempt to not hyperventilate. John reached over with his free hand and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls to try and soothe him.

“Shhh, it’s alright, love. _I’m_ alright. Just breathe for me, okay?”

Sherlock’s breathing slowly returned to a rate that wasn’t quite as alarming. Once he felt he had regained control of himself Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. “I thought I was going to lose you, John,” he whispered, “and that would have been unacceptable.”

“But you didn’t lose me. We’re both here. Together.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and his voice shook with distress. “John, there was so much blood. I…I couldn’t make it stop. No matter how hard I pressed it wouldn’t stop. The bullet hit your femoral artery. I was helpless, John! There was nothing I could do to help you!” His eyes began to fill with tears and his voice lowered, barely audible. “I should have stayed with you. We never should have split up. I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”

John cupped Sherlock’s jaw and raised his head, forcing their eyes to meet. He spoke gently. “Hey, you did nothing wrong, do you hear me? It was bad luck and there is nothing you could have done differently to have prevented it, okay? You were there for me. You helped to slow the bleeding which gave the medics a leg up when they got there. You saved my life. Do you understand?”

Sherlock took a moment to absorb John’s words then slowly nodded his affirmation, the motion shaking loose one of the tears he had been fighting back. John watched as it rolled over the sharp ridge of the man’s cheekbone and finally settled at the corner of his mouth where John used his thumb to brush the offending droplet away. It made his heart ache to see how much guilt and fear Sherlock was burdened with and he felt his own throat begin to close with emotion. 

“When was the last time you ate?” John hoped the change of topic would help to diffuse their emotional tension.

“Before we left the flat last night.”

“That’s far too long. I for one am feeling a bit peckish. Let’s see what fine cuisine this hospital has to offer, yeah? I’ll let you have my pudding.” John gave Sherlock a wink and reached for the nurses’ call button.

The food arrived quickly and John ate with enthusiasm. _“Nothing like almost dying to make even hospital food taste like fine dining,”_ he thought to himself. He had managed to persuade Sherlock to eat the fruit cup and half of the bun from the food tray. The detective was now sitting quietly and drinking the tea the nurse had brought in for him.

John was mid-bite when a thought occurred to him. “Hey, Sherlock, what ever happened with the suspect?”

“Lestrade’s men caught up with him a few streets over from where we were.”

“Ah…that’s good. Glad they got their man.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin link and his hands clenched tightly around his mug. His voice assumed a menacing tone. “I assure you, John, if he had killed you he would not have made it out of that alleyway alive.”

John cast his eyes downward. He had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock would have done exactly that. It both scared and thrilled him that Sherlock would have avenged his death. He also knew that he would have done the same had the roles been reversed.

The men sat in silence, the mood having grown somber once more. John shuffled the food around on his plate and Sherlock seemed to take a great interest in staring at his tea. John startled slightly when Sherlock finally spoke. “John…I meant what I said. In the alleyway, I mean. I…I do love you. As you know, I have spent my entire life guarding my emotions closely, not allowing anyone get near for fear that they might hurt me. As I was holding you in the alleyway, thinking that I might lose you…it terrified me like nothing else. I had finally found someone that I was able to trust my heart to, and…” Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily as tears threatened to spill over. Without looking he reached over and took John’s hand in his. 

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand in return. “And I love you, too. Unfortunately it took my getting shot and ending up in hospital with a catheter in my dick for us both to admit it, but we got there eventually, yeah?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and nodded. “Yes, we did eventually get there.”

John gingerly pushed himself over to the opposite side of the hospital bed and patted the spot next to him. “Hop on up, love. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a bit knackered. I know it’s frowned upon by the staff to share the bed but, frankly, I couldn’t give a toss right now.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, John. My brother has assured me all of your requests shall be met while you are here. Actually, I was surprised you hadn’t noticed you were placed in a private room.”

“Well, then, I owe your brother a note of thanks once I’m discharged. Now, get your delightful arse up here.”

Sherlock smiled as he toed off his shoes and situated himself on the bed. He turned to his side and curled his body around John, minding that he didn’t put any pressure on his leg or dislodge any of the tubes and wires running from his body. He rested his hand on John’s chest. The heart beating strong beneath the skin, affirming John was truly alive and there with him. 

John wound his arm around, rested his hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and tugged him closer, turning his head to nestle his nose into Sherlock’s curls. “See you when I wake up, love.”

“Have a pleasant rest, John.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock share their first Christmas together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my family has always opened presents and whatnot on Christmas Eve vs. Christmas Day, so that is how I depicted it here.

December 24th, 2013

John loved this time of year. Cheery holiday displays in the shop windows, the smell of pine and cinnamon that permeated the air, and the crisp temperatures that catered to his love of thick, fuzzy jumpers. The holidays also tended to put people in better sprits. Even on the tube. The clinic had closed early for the holidays which gave John just enough time to take the tube down to Cecil Court to do some last-minute shopping. As he exited the Bakerloo station a blast of wind caused John to tug his scarf tighter around his neck and to quicken his step. His rehabilitation after the incident in the alleyway had gone well, but the colder weather tended to make the injury site ache a bit and he ventured forward with a slight limp; this one not psychosomatic. 

Despite the chill weather and the ache in his leg John carried a smile on his face. He and Sherlock were about to celebrate their first Christmas together and John wanted to find something special for Sherlock to mark the occasion, a task that was proving to be more difficult than anticipated. He had searched what felt like all of London with no luck but was hoping that a trip to one of the antiquarian book shops would bear fruit.

The first few shops yielded some interesting finds, but nothing left John with that “this is it” feeling. It was getting late in the day and many of the shops would soon be closing. Not allowing himself to feel discouraged John made his way to a promising looking shop near the end of the row. Daylight faded quickly this time of year and the lights that shown from the shop windows cast a yellow glow on the light dusting of snow that had fallen throughout the day.

A bell above the door jingled as John entered the shop and a bit of powdery snow followed him inside. John wiped his feed on the mat just inside the door and pulled the gloves from his hands, shoving them in his coat pockets. He took a deep breath. Old paper, dust, aged leather. The shop smelled like he would find something unusual hidden in the stacks. The shop was silent aside from the Christmas carols playing quietly from a speaker on a shelf above the counter. He appeared to be the only patron in the store which wasn’t surprising as most people were likely hurrying home to begin their holiday festivities, something he was hoping to soon be doing himself. As he began his browsing the shelves a woman appeared from the back of the shop.

“Oh, hello, dear! I didn’t hear the bell ring when you came in. Can I help you find anything?”

“Yeah, actually. I’m looking for something for my boyfriend. Something unique. He’s difficult to buy for and I’m trying to find something special for him.”

“Can you tell me a bit about him? What types of things is he interested in?”

“Well, he’s interested in a good many things, but I would say crimes and criminology are his main interest.”

The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I know just the book for you!”

The woman led John to a small bookshelf toward the back of the store. Her eyes scanned the shelves until they fell on the book she had been looking for. Pulling it carefully from the collection she handed it over to John who knew immediately that this was exactly what he was looking for.

He gently turned the book over in his hands inspecting the ornate gilt lettering. “It’s perfect!” he beamed.

John flipped open the front cover and felt his heart sink a bit when he saw the price on the inside. _“£350!? Shit, that’s a week’s pay!… It’s perfect, though.”_ John sighed, closed the cover and handed it back. “I’ll take it.”

The woman smiled and guided John back to the front counter where she carefully wrapped the book first in tissue paper then again in a heavy butcher paper, the bundle held together with festive silver and red ribbons. Offering many thanks and holiday well-wishes, John hurried off to the tube station. His wallet felt considerably empty, but his heart felt full to near bursting with the anticipation of Sherlock opening the gift.

The ride back to Baker Street felt like it took ages and John looked forward to settling in for the evening. Upon opening the front door to the building John was hit with a wave of delicious smells which immediately set his stomach to rumbling and his mouth to watering. As he climbed the stairs he could hear strains of O Holy Night being coaxed gently from Sherlock’s violin. He was nearly overcome with emotion at the sight he found inside. While he had been out Sherlock had decorated the flat. Fairy lights were strung throughout the room; a balsam swag hung above the mirror over the mantelpiece and in the corner near the window was a small Christmas tree. Even the bison skull had gotten the holiday treatment by way of a Santa hat perched between its horns. John closed the door softly behind him so as not to disturb the music. He watched as Sherlock swayed in time, his bow drawing out the last notes of the carol with reverence. Placing the instrument back in its case, Sherlock turned and offered John a warm smile. 

“Welcome home, John.”

John hung his coat by the door and crossed the room. He raised himself on his toes and placed a soft kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Hello, love. That was beautiful.” He turned and nodded his head to the room. “What’s all this, then?”

Sherlock’s brow knit and he wrung his hands nervously. “Do you like it?”

“I love it. You know Christmas is my favorite holiday. But, I thought you said you weren’t into all of this festive, over-commercialized nonsense.”

Sherlock brought his hands up and rested them gently at John’s waist. “I’ve never had cause to celebrate Christmas, or any holiday, really, before now. I thought perhaps this was an appropriate time to start.”

John’s heart clenched and he wound his arms around Sherlock’s waist, tugging him close and hoping to conceal his emotional state. Sherlock pulled back slightly and rested his forehead against John’s. “I’ve prepared a small holiday meal for us… if you’re hungry. Just a simple menu, but I think you will find it satisfactory.”

John gave a watery chuckle. “It smelled bloody fantastic when I opened the door. Yeah, let’s eat.”

Before heading into the kitchen John placed his gift for Sherlock under the small tree next to a box conspicuously labeled _“John”_ in Sherlock’s trademark scrawl.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John open their presents. Horrible Christmas sex puns and implied sexy-times ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a bit out of character at the end of the chapter but I just went with it. Because puns.
> 
>  

John entered the kitchen to find the table completely devoid of lab equipment and experiments which, much to Sherlock’s irritation, John declared a Christmas miracle in itself. A red linen cloth had been draped over the table and a trio of candles burned at the center. The menu was indeed simple but included all of John’s favorites: roast potatoes, pigs in a blanket, cranberry sauce, chestnut stuffing, mulled wine and mince pies. Instead of a large turkey Sherlock had prepared them each a small Cornish game hen (“It’s like getting your own tiny turkey, John!”).

Sherlock pulled out a chair for John and he seated himself at the table. “Sherlock, everything looks amazing! I can’t believe you did all this yourself.”

Sherlock ladled out some mulled wine for each of them and settled himself next to John. “Mrs. Hudson made the mince pies, actually. They’ve always been my favorite and she was more than happy to make some for us for this evening. A bit selfish on my part I admit.” 

John smiled as he filled his plate. “Whatever gets you to eat, love.”

The meal tasted every bit as good as it looked and John had to force himself to stop after his second helping. He was glad to see that Sherlock had eaten a good portion of his game hen (a small bit of which had gone to Curie who stood watch for any stray bit that might fall to the floor) and had taken at least a small helping of each of the other dishes before placing several mince pies on his plate. _“He’s either going to ride a sugar high for the rest of the night or slip into a food coma,”_ John mused.

Feeling sufficiently full the two men topped off their glasses retired to the living room. They bundled themselves onto the sofa and propped their feet up on the coffee table. They sat and sipped their wine in silence, content to simply enjoy each other’s company. Carols played softly from the sound system and the fire crackled in the grate. John leaned into Sherlock and rested his head on his shoulder, smiling to himself as he rubbed his foot gently against the other man’s calf. He couldn’t recall when he’d had a more perfect Christmas. The last few Christmases he had spent with his family had certainly not been joyful as they had ended sourly in a shouting match between his parents and his drunken sister.

Pushing the unpleasant thoughts away John tipped his head up to look at Sherlock. “Care to open your present?”

“We can exchange gifts now if you like.”

John got up from the couch and fetched the wrapped packages from under their small tree. He reseated himself on the couch and handed Sherlock his gift. “You first.”

Sherlock carefully undid the ribbons and methodically released the tape at the edges of the paper. _“Not a ‘ripper’ apparently,”_ John observed.  
As he watched Sherlock unwrap the package (“Obviously a book, John. Even you could have deuced that.”) John began to feel nervous about his choice of gift and began to backpedal. “You were bloody hard to buy for. If you don’t like it I’m sure we can return it or exchange it for something else. You don’t have to pretend you like it if you don’t, it won’t hurt my feelings.”

Sherlock shot John his patented ‘Don’t be ridiculous’ expression and pulled away the last of the tissue paper. Upon seeing the contents he broke into a wide smile. “ _[History Romance and Philosophy of Great American Crimes and Criminals](http://hectocotylus1.tumblr.com/post/128827548170)_. It’s brilliant, John! I don’t have any books in my collection detailing crime in America. Let alone one of this age.” He ran his hand gently over the cover, long fingers tracing the details pressed into the cover. He turned and gave John a soft kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, John.”

John smiled in relief. “You’re welcome, love. I’m glad you like it.”

Sherlock nodded to the box in John’s hands. “Your turn, then.”

John was not as delicate as Sherlock when it came to opening presents and he tore into the paper with purpose. Beneath the paper was a garment box with _Harrods_ embossed prominently on top. John pursed his lips, knowing Sherlock had spent entirely too much money on whatever was inside. Lifting the lid John was presented with a [gorgeous charcoal grey cashmere jumper](http://hectocotylus1.tumblr.com/post/140827650105) which he was certain he did not want to know the cost of. He ran his hand reverently over the knit. John had never owned something so luxurious and was sure he never would again. He turned to protest. “Sherlock, this is too much…”

“Then consider it a gift to me," Sherlock interjected. "While I have given up on you forgoing jumpers entirely, I thought I would at least ensure that you had one in your wardrobe that wasn’t entirely offensive. Now, if you will observe more closely, there is still an envelope in the box which you have yet to open that contains another gift.” Sherlock raised his hand, sensing John’s oncoming objection. “Before you ask, what is inside cost me nothing more than a bit of my time.”

John turned his attention back to the box. Sure enough, peeking out from the neck of the jumper was a glossy silver envelope which he had completely missed. _“Christ. No wonder he thinks I have zero observational skills.”_ John folded back the flap of the envelope and withdrew what looked like some sort of membership card from the inside. His jaw dropped as he read the details printed upon it. “Sherlock…this card gives me unlimited access to the library at the Royal Veterinary College. They only allow that kind of access to students and faculty. How on earth did you get this?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “The Principal of the college owed me a favor for tracking down the individual who was stealing large quantities of ketamine from the college’s store rooms. He was more than happy to oblige my request. The card also grants you access to any of the labs or lectures should you desire to attend.”

John set the box and envelope aside and wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock, burying his head in his chest. “Christ, I don’t deserve you. How did I get so lucky?”

Sherlock returned the hug and gently rested his head on top of John’s. “You deserve every good thing that comes to you, John. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, love.”

They sat entwined on the couch for quite some time. The fire was beginning to burn low and the pleasant fuzzy-headedness from the mulled wine was beginning to dissipate. John gave Sherlock a squeeze and leaned back so he could look Sherlock in the eye. His lips turned up into a mischievous grin. “You know, you gave me two gifts and I only gave you the one. Hardly seems fair. I think I may have something you can unwrap in the bedroom, though.”

Sherlock smiled and feigned contemplation. “Mm… I do believe you’re right, that doesn’t seem fair at all. I think I had better see what you have to give me.”

“No returns or exchanges allowed on this gift I’m afraid,” John winked.

Sherlock leaned down and purred into John’s ear. “I’m sure it will fit just fine.”

John laughed and gave Sherlock a playful slap to the arm. “Alright, enough with the Christmas sex-puns, it’s getting weird now.”

Sherlock waggled his eyebrows. “So, you’re not going to jingle my bells then?”

John rolled his eyes, got up from the couch and made his way to the bedroom. “Not if you keep making those horrible puns!” he shouted back.

Sherlock called to John as he trotted off after him, “Can I at least see your yule log?”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets romantic and decides to take their relationship to the next level

September 24, 2014

John leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long and miserable day. The surgery he had assisted with that morning hadn’t gone well and they had lost the patient. The dog had been well on in years and the owner knew the risks of putting the animal under sedation, but it didn’t make his job any easier when he had to explain to a tearful child why their beloved companion wasn’t going home with them. The afternoon hadn’t gone much better between the ferret that decided his hand was a chew toy and the angry client that couldn’t understand why it was going to cost £180 to treat their rabbit that was in the advanced stages of GI stasis. He wanted nothing more than to finish his case notes, go home, and spend an evening watching crap telly and listening to his genius boyfriend complain about it.

There was a soft knock at the door and Rachel popped her head into the office, offering John an apologetic smile. “Dr. Watson, there’s a man here wondering if you have time to squeeze in his cat’s annual exam. He seemed insistent that it happen today. What would you like me to tell him?”

Looking down at his watch John scowled and mumbled to himself. “Bloody hell, it’s 4:30. Why do people wait until the last minute?” He heaved sigh of irritation and saved his notes. “Go ahead and show him into the exam room. I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

After taking a few minutes to look at the next day’s schedule John gathered up his clipboard and headed for the exam room. Taking a deep breath and plastering a smile on his face he opened the door. His cheerful countenance turned to one of confusion when he was met with a lanky detective leaning against the exam table. A pet-carrier sat at his feed and a pair of green eyes peered out at him from inside. “Sherlock, what are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Of course John, we’re here for a routine annual exam. Your receptionist should have told you.”

“Yes, she told me there was a cat here for an exam, but she didn’t tell me it was you. Sherlock, I could have done Curie’s exam at home, you didn’t have to come down here right before closing time to have me do it.”

Sherlock swept his arms open dramatically. “Well, we’re here, so you may as well proceed.”

John’s shoulders dropped and he sighed in exasperation. “Go ahead and pop her up on the table then.”

Sherlock extracted Curie from her carrier while John busied himself gathering his instruments. Leaning forward to check Curie’s eyes with the ophthalmoscope John’s caught sight of something tied around the cat’s neck. “When did we get Curie a collar?” Looking closer he realized that it was a piece of blue satin ribbon. Puzzled, John felt under Curie’s chin in search of the ID tag. His fingers brushed against something metallic. _“This doesn’t feel like an ID tag. It feels more like a….”  
_  
John’s heart skipped and he drew in a sharp breath through his nose. He slowly lifted Curie’s chin looking to confirm his suspicion. And there John saw it. Tied to the ribbon around Curie’s neck was a silver band. Realizing he had been holding his breath John took a lungful of air. He turned to speak but found he could form no words. Sensing his distress, Sherlock nervously took John’s hand and proceeded to provide an explanation.

“John, I am sure you remember the day, but you likely do not remember the date. It was on this day one year ago that I brought Curie here for an exam. It was on this day one year ago that I met you. I am rude, inconsiderate, and my abrasive tendencies have only ever served to drive people away. Yet, for all my flaws, you continue to love me and stand by me no matter the situation. For god’s sake you have nearly _died_ assisting me in my work…” Sherlock visibly tensed at the memory, “…please…do try not to do that again...The first night I contacted you I said it ‘could be dangerous’ and there you were, standing beside me, as you always have.” It was at this point that Sherlock undid the ribbon from around Curie’s neck and dropped to one knee. He took a deep breath and slid the ring onto John’s finger. “John Hamish Watson, you would do me a great honor if you would stand beside me once more…as my husband. Will you marry me?” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand, his lips forming an impish grin. “Could be dangerous.”

John let out a laugh. “And here I am. Of course I’ll marry you, Sherlock. Now get up here so I can give my fiancé a proper kiss.”


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sends John a nostalgic text at their wedding. A very short little epilogue.

October 25, 2014

Finding no need for extravagance, it was decided that the wedding would take place at the end of October (thanks to some fast-tracking of paperwork on Mycroft’s part) at Sherlock’s family cottage in Sussex. The day was overcast yet unseasonably warm causing the smell of dried leaves to hang in the air. The two of them had wanted to keep the affair small which resulted in an abbreviated guest list of only a few family members, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade who were all currently seated in the back garden. The flowers had all gone to bed for the season but the foliage on the trees and the autumn fruits on the shrubbery made for a cozy atmosphere.

John was seated in front of a mirror in one of the guest rooms fiddling with his bowtie for what felt like the hundredth time in an attempt to get it to lie properly. Finally satisfied that it would pass Sherlock’s scrutiny he sat and took a moment to collect himself. He drew an index card from the front pocket of his suit jacket and re-read the words he had finally written the night before. He had spent days agonizing over how to put his feelings in to words. As far as he could tell there weren’t words that existed that were able to adequately express what he felt and he hoped that where his words failed his actions would be able to show Sherlock the depth of his love.

John startled when his phone vibrated to signal a new text. He smiled warmly at the series of texts that popped up on his screen:

_“Come if convenient –SH”_

_“If inconvenient, come anyway –SH”_

_“Could be dangerous –SH”_

Giving himself a final once-over in the mirror John placed the index card back in his pocket and strode from the room to go and stand beside Sherlock once more as they set forth on their new adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is in all its mediocre glory. I hope at least some of you enjoyed it a bit. Again, this was purely a challenge in seeing if I could actually pull some words out of my head and formulate them into a moderately readable storyline. Will I write more stories in the future? Meh, probably not of this length, this took a lot out of me and it's still "just ok". It was a fun challenge though and I hope that some of you unsure of if you should "do the thing" or not, go out and do it.


End file.
